


Working in Government Gives You No Discounts For Your Sex Life

by ikui



Category: Running Man RPF, SHINee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chaptered, Drama, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3320099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikui/pseuds/ikui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Read All About It: A DAMMING VERDICT FOR THE ESTWICK</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SHINee Duets 2012 fic, co-written with [civilized_era](http://civilized_era.livejournal.com)
> 
> Unfortunately, this fic is unfinished. I currently do not keep in contact with **civilized_era** and I am not confident in my ability to do justice for the missing parts. However, I thought it would be best to post everything that has been finished, including a part not posted on livejournal. I'm still not sure if I will write the rest of the story, but I don't want to make any promises. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

A DAMMING VERDICT FOR THE ESTWICK

_Wild Fish Enhancement is suing two biologists from the Segai Institute for their endorsement of a proposed fish hatchery within the newly restored Estwick River. With the removal of the Estwick Dam, fifty miles of pristine fish habitat is now accessible to hundreds of thousands of salmon who come back each fall to spawn in their natal stream. According to the WFE, the installation of a fish hatchery will inflict genetic adulteration within the species. "More is not better," maintains WFE Executive Director Kim Hanwen. "We are interested in propagating the species within a stretch of the river that has not been available to native wildlife for over six decades. Putting a hatchery in the river does nothing to support our efforts of ensuring the salmon thrive by natural means."_

_But the Segai Institute had an unexpected advocate in White House Communications Director Lee Jinki, who wrote a searing editorial in the Washington Post last Wednesday. "It's ironic that WFE is so focused on achieving genetic refinement when the federal government has done all it can to annihilate the gene pool of the Segais." No response is yet available from the White House in regards to Mr. Lee's comments._

 

 

 

She's never liked heels, but they do make for a dramatic entrance.

The walk down the hall doesn't take long, but tonight each step is punctuated with the click of her five-inch Louboutins, the seamless line behind her legs and feminine curve of thighs, pencil skirt belted with a tucked in shirt. Ominous enough.

The world is in her hands, capped by two paragraphs on a letterhead far too familiar in this building, the manila envelope a formality secured with the tiny metal clip. Even formality, in fact, was an anachronism, considering her phone vibrating in her pocket – probably Donghoon asking what kind of fixings she'd like with her hamburger tacos. But this was a place of tradition.

She stops outside an office. Off-white, classic pleated pattern, mid-18th century, just like all the others. There are only a few others, though. It's 11:30 PM. Foo Fighters' Dear Rosemary is playing on KMAX 101.2, which is just so fucking perfect because she hated the Foo Fighters.

"Have you eaten?" Speaking of traditions: A question steeped in their shared heritage, where strength, power, the ability to breathe fire and vanquish all enemies is solely dependent on the food you've consumed. Takeout boxes from KFC, empty styrofoam cups previously filled with powder-mixed mashed potatoes and gravy litter the floor around the garbage can, balled up napkins next to teachings and preachings in paragraph form.

You are what you eat. But unfortunately, chickens rarely have the upper hand.

"Yeah, mom." Her colleague barely looks away from his computer, a plastic spoon caught between his teeth. "Hey, by your definition, what constitutes as an airplane?"

"Why, you thinking about taking a trip?"

"I'm serious, noona." An out-of-place endearment; under a public, more professional audience, he'd call her Jihyo-sshi.

"I'm serious, too." The tone of her voice, devoid of her usual humor, makes him look again, this time longer, lingering, until his gaze drops to the envelope in her hand. Jihyo swallows hard past the lump in her throat, then says, "Maybe you should take a trip."

He pulls the spoon slowly from his mouth, the tip glistening with his saliva a distraction in the dimly lit room. "Should it be a one-way ticket?"

"No." She was told to be firm about this. "No, nothing really changes. But this is politics," she affirms unnecessarily. "It matters what we call you."

"I see." Jinki holds out his hand; Jihyo hands him the envelope. He takes it out and she holds back the urge to bite her lip as she watches his eyes skim over the preamble and land mid-page – right to the important stuff.

"You wrote this?" he asks at last. Jihyo nods slowly.

"Heechul proofed, approved it in two minutes."

"Ouch," Jinki says softly, then drops the piece of paper on his desk. He dips his head slightly; his bangs falls into his eyes, momentarily hiding his expression, and Jihyo grits her teeth against a sudden surge of sympathy. Sometimes she forgets he's still so young.

Young, and brilliant. But he fucked up.

"Like I said, you're not getting kicked out of the House. But they've arranged a space for you in the office downtown, next to Kibum's – you remember him?"

"...Of course."

"You'll get the new crew in two weeks. Take a trip if you want, but be back before then."

"This time with my head in the game," he replies woodenly, and Jihyo glances at him sharply.

"And more complaisance on your plate than just salmon," she tells him. "You got pissed off over _dinner_ , Jinki."

An averted gaze follows, Jinki leaning back into his chair, lazy and saturnine, no fight or resistance. That complacency is exactly what she resented the most, for these grounds were no place for fragility. Yet fragile is exactly what Jinki had become: the passion, the fire, stomped out of him, extinguished into bitter embers.

It was daunting to believe that at one point in the distant past, this man had walked into this very office, slamming palms onto the desk and showing a courageous will to remove the outdated bureaucracy that resided within. He had bypassed the same manila envelope, had instead rolled up his sleeves in order to sink elbow-deep into the slew of American politics. Jinki had been in her position, once a fighter working for the benefit of the system.

Was it too much for her to have expected this scenario to cause a resurgence, the bite of an opponent that could challenge her directive?

Jihyo is not sure, especially as she finds that her business has ended, quicker than anticipated.

"You know what I think constitutes as an airplane," Jinki says finally, as Jihyo turns to go.

Internally, she winces. Of course he would want the last word. "What?"

"Shooting for the Z. Most people just see the X and Y – and the X and Y argue right or left, without having the slightest idea there's another way." Then he looks straight at her, and the intense loss without regret doesn't just make her uneasy; it scares her. "That's what keeps it a myth, something we only think exists in our imaginations."

"Then I'll congratulate you on your ability to fly," she retorts. "But the rest of us are still grounded. We're not interested in exploding, Jinki. Rules exist in order to achieve results."

"Rules are meant to be broken," he says childishly, and Jihyo glares.

"I'll see you in two weeks."

 

 

 

Demoness, exiting the office with each step she takes like added punctuation to some regimen for his undoing, leaving Jinki to wallow in self-loathing. Or that is what he would have liked, sliding into his worn office chair, hearing the creaking groan as an audible exemplar for his current mood. Jinki however, is distracted by the irritating sight, just between the fingers that are pressed against his forehead: the empty brown cardboard box, shoved beside his desk from this morning.

A knock at the door.

He does not bother looking up this time, expecting the presence midway between his prior unscheduled conference.

"So that's why you handed that thing to me this morning." Jinki jerks a thumb towards the box. "Who knew it'd be such a life-changing omen?"

"Well it's not like it came with a puppy."

Kibum shuffles inside and carefully shuts the door behind him, moving as if the entire building is asleep, which might very well be the truth, seeing as Jinki, holed up in his office since three this afternoon, couldn't make the call himself. "She wasn't dropping tears when she left, so I assume you must've taken it easy on her."

"She asked me if I remembered you."

Kibum scoffs, and Jinki feels a sudden stab of relief; at least he still had one person on his side.

"Anything else remotely interesting?"

"We discussed the axes upon which an airplane travels." Jinki says solemnly, before a corner of his mouth curls up at Kibum's baffled stare. "Oh, and the usual pitiful looks."

"In other words, How to Concede with Humility While Going Down Easy in Politics 101?"

"I didn't get to attend that lecture."

"...Be careful, Mr. Wiseass, otherwise I won't be able to tell you apart from all the other Yalies around here."

Jinki visibly flinches, a label he prefers not to recall. Even though he appreciates Kibum's presence, it's all too easy to keep in mind that the blonde was not the epitome of compassion. For one, the offered commiseration was not always in tune with what he wanted; Jinki watches silently as Kibum approaches his desk, then sits on the surface and effectively crushes all the papers sitting in the only space that was clear of litter. Their eyes meet, Kibum's popping out more than usual due to the dark line of kohl, everything implying a far cry from his anticipated night of moping at home on his worn leather couch. "You're taking me out, aren't you?"

"Yes." Kibum smiles widely, lips making a show of shine and gloss. Jinki resists the urge to grab a used tissue and wipe it away.

"And would it be assuming too much that I had a choice about it?"

"Absolutely." Kibum makes a face at the clutter on his desk, an ample collection of greasy food containers. "So get packing."

Not that Jinki had all that much to pack besides a few unsorted files, some half-filled PEZ dispensers, and maybe some freebie lobby group pens. Unlike his coworkers, he's never been much of a sentimental person, his desk sans framed photos of family and friends. To Jinki, having his mom's photo in his wallet is enough, an intentional double-edged sword for bailouts during disaster dates.

"Is that really it?" asks Kibum, not helping in the slightest as Jinki sluggishly fills the box, occasionally scraping off dried potatoes from the edge of a sheet.

"It's not like I'm the type to treat my – what _was_ my office – like some kind of high security vault." Jinki scrunches his nose, making the prompt decision to abandon what appeared to be a pen stuck in a congealed cup of gravy. "Work is work and home is where the heart is, or whatever the fuck."

"Uh huh." Kibum is leaning over, being authoritatively useless while Jinki toils away, picking at a stray wrapper. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" His anger and shame slowly slipping, Jinki finds himself tidying the office in autopilot, almost in a daze. "I'm cleaning."

"Why?"

"Well—" Jinki pauses, just short of dropping more trash into his already overflowing trashcan. "Common courtesy, right?"

"So you're going to clean your office for the power woman who trumped you?"

Jinki looks up and Kibum's brow is arched a mile high.

"Point taken."

Kibum smiles. "Now take your pathetic box before I dump it."

Jinki clutches his belongings a little tighter, dreading the grip that loops itself around his free arm.

"We're going out and you have three choices: Eastside, 14th Ave, or the Metropolitan."

Absolute dread, because if anything, those places were made for lifestyles of the rich and famous, young men such as Kibum, not socially inept folks like Jinki. However, while Jinki is being pulled down the lavish halls of red carpets and pristine walls, he tries to take a different approach.

"Kibum, I just got _demoted_." A dramatic groan, hoping for some sort of sympathetic effect. "I can't afford even a mouthful of some mixed drink, let alone ten bucks worth."

"I already know you don't drink cocktails."

The curt reply and Jinki cringes, caught red-handed.

"Anyway, it's Tuesday and they have a Bud Light special for three dollars. Perfect for you."

"Seriously." Jinki looks into Kibum's confident gaze as he stumbles along. "Did you plan this all in advance?"

"Yes, including the cab."

"Why a cab?" Now Jinki is starting to think that all of this is really unnecessary. "Look, so I took a tumble off the bridge into troubled waters; so what? It doesn't mean my vehicle's rendered useless, right? Save some cash, save me a trip, don't burn the extra exhaust; think of the environment!"

Kibum continues to stride down the hall like his entire purpose is to pretend like he hadn't heard a word of what Jinki just said. "We're going out for the night, hyung. And that entails an upgrade from your sad, tawny, lame excuse for a car Camry DX. Although a taxi may not be the most extravagant thing, it'd be nice to be seen in a vehicle from this century."

Jinki's miffed, partially because he is not sure what color tawny is, but also because he's pretty goddamn sure that Kibum just took a cheap shot at _Lucinda_.

"Okay, fine, she's fifteen years old, but you're nine years older than she is, and it's not like _you_ still run like you're brand new." Jinki is triple-checked assured of that fact, as he made sure to stretch the worth of his $2500 deposit on his baby, sweat and tears slowly building up savings from minimum wage jobs in his college days.

"Hyung." Kibum gives him a frank look, countering Jinki's burst of confidence. "The door is rusting and trust me, having to endure being in that metal beast once is already more than enough. But—"

Jinki does not like the way Kibum gives a sharp glance at his half-filled box.

"—Your car would be good storage space in the meantime."

As usual, Jinki is not quick enough to articulate an immediate protest, and his attention is diverted as the man's bony fingers reach into his pocket, left posterior. A teasing squeeze that makes Jinki yelp, followed immediately by a pronounced frown. Kibum dangles his keys in front of his face, a clear taunt as they finally make their way out of the building, past security guards with expressionless faces that could rival the Queen's Guards, if not a little more, well, Americanized military jackets.

At this point, Jinki does not even want to bother inquiring how Kibum knew where he kept his keys, nor does he want to look back to the grandest of all prisons, supremely white and superficially reassuring. Jinki instead chooses to saunter behind clumsily with box in arm, the fresh night air oddly chilling to his skin as his feet shuffle forward on the pavement.

Grounded, Jihyo had said. He still didn't like it.

Not only that, but as they near the parking lot, he begins to acquiesce that maybe Kibum had a point, poor Lucinda sticking out like a sore thumb among the sleek, thick steeled silhouettes of Audis and BMWs, their dark colors looking cool and contemporary. Taxi it is, then.

Granted, the Camry didn't do him any good at Yale either. Back when he was drinking 24-packs of Fanta every three days and sleeping on his stomach with his Olivetti typewriter within reach, Jinki still wasn't considered the cream of the crop. A natural introvert, his staying-in sessions mostly involved watering his potted plants and writing letters to congressmen and local representatives by lamplight while his peers went to dinosaur parties and drinking blitzes.

Well, sometimes he torrented movies.

A degree in political science wasn't exactly a shoe-in for a successful and robust career; but as was typical, after graduating, Jinki was a mind and body of ideals. Five applications to jobs all over the country landed him at a literacy program in Portland, where he spent afternoons and evenings teaching GED and ESL classes, struggling to make education a priority again to people seeking a second chance. Learning about the tremendous pressures his students faced at home, his heart slowly fractured and finally broke at the end of two years. He still wanted to save the world, but that desire was now tempered by the recognition of the structure and rules of the system they were born into; the country paid its price for its heterogeneity, and people could still hurt each other in what should be safe places in phenomenal ways.

After his third year, he realized that if he wanted to change things, he had to buy into the game. So with the best hand he had, he moved to DC to work as a campaign staffer for the Democratic presidential nominee, splitting his remaining time volunteering at a veterans support agency group and translating documents from Hangul to English for the CIA. As such, when he scored first row seats to the party convention and overheard the speechwriters arguing over the transition between veterans affairs and foreign policy, Jinki had a few ideas. Three days later, Jinki found himself working for the man who was seeking to become the most powerful person in the world.

Which, he did.

But what a town. For the first time in his life, Jinki was no longer able to win arguments with his flawless discourse. In fact, there was no discourse; there was no winning. There was politics, and politics meant the slow yet magnificent stripping of every public service into a standardized regulation, where demarcations were made on people who were eligible for things like food, basic utilities, a place to called home based on inconclusive demographics, categories that were downright cold in practice. Instead of serving the people, Jinki found himself supporting lawmakers who were working to keep them out.

Then the salmon thing happened, his moment of madness – _something fishy_ , Seohyun had called it, before it became clear just how serious his mistake was – and it all snowballed from there.

 

 

 

The thing with Kibum is, the more he hates you, the nicer he is to your face. So part of Jinki's still grateful that even when he bypasses his budget restrictions anyway by ordering a single malt whiskey because that's what he's gotten used to drinking while shuffling suits between the Hay-Adams and Decatur House, that Kibum's still there to call him a fancy old man, eyes full of judgment as they scrape over his rolled up shirt sleeves and too-loose slacks.

"Now I'm stuck with the biggest nerd on Capitol Hill," he complains, reaching instinctively to straighten Jinki's collar. "Jihyo totally has it in for me too." As far as he was concerned, genius was by no means an excuse for looking like shit.

"Look, no one's going to wear Armani to work," retorts Jinki "What's the point when we're already sweating through our first crisis at six in the morning?"

"You're in front of cameras all the time, is the point," Kibum says. He angles an eyebrow, as if taking mental measurements, and Jinki blinks.

"Don't tell me there's a dress code at campaign headquarters."

"When I'm the captain," Kibum begins, and Jinki groans. "No sponsored polos, no zip-up fleece, no baseball caps. You shower every day—" he points a finger, a preemptive accusation, "and dress like you're trying to seduce the American public. Which, I should clarify, is _exactly_ what we're doing, instead of trying to sell them the food spilled down the front of our shirts, you know what I mean?"

"I still think Jihyo hates me more," Jinki says, after a horrified pause.

"You better put some effort into it too," Kibum adds loftily. "The staff applications required headshots this year; I swear Eunjung wants to hire these guys for Real McCoy models after the campaign season – they're _ridiculous_."

Jinki gapes. " _You're_ ridiculous," he says, but it's hardly a comeback.

Kibum shrugs. "This is politics," an indirect echo of what Jihyo had said earlier. "Appearances matter."

Another one of those grown-up realities that Jinki would rather forget, deciding this was the opportune moment to down the remainder of the burning amber liquid. Honestly, who cares about imperfect hair or all-nighter eau de toilette? It's what things like hair gel and deodorant were for, not that he really used much of either.

Oh fuck it.

"One more drink, ple—"

A hand shoots out before he can finish his sentence, and Jinki finds his arm being pulled away from the bartender. He directs a glare at Kibum because it was his idea to go out in the first place, so goddammit to hell if he was being told to stop. It's only at this juncture that Jinki realizes that Kibum is not within his line of sight; accordingly, the fingers on his wrist are a lot longer than he's used to. Jinki veers his gaze only to find it landing on some hot shot in a bomber jacket wedged right between the two of them: Crinkled eyes with pronounced experience, a straight jaw, and inevitably, the smile asking for something more than a friendly introduction.

"Let me get that for you."

Jinki would raise an objection, except hey, he just lost his job and a free drink is a free drink. The man orders another malt whiskey on ice and Jinki resists the urge to grin as Kibum leans back, making a show of rolling his eyes, which is a surprisingly tame reaction on the blonde's part. Usually the young man would have been outraged at being pushed aside so rudely, but Jinki thinks the complacency may have something to do with this whole situation being the perfect spectator sport.

"A toast."

Oh, so this guy was going to take that route, an attempt at a handsome smile with a tinge of wasted charm.

"For what?"

If Jinki was in the mood, he would have played it up a little, voice more curious than the dead mundane pitch it was currently at. However, sadly for him, this blatant display of disinterest didn't seem to be enough to dissuade his courtier. Nor does it dissuade Kibum, snickering in the background and ordering a vodka cooler for that delicious combination of refreshment and witnessing the humiliation of a friend.

"Oh, I don't know." The man tries the smile again, arms resting comfortably on the bar, reminding Jinki far too much of the pompous older men he had to frequently encounter while residing in the upper echelons. "To a young night, an ambient atmosphere, and a good drink."

Their glasses come together, a forced _clink_ that allows Jinki to wash down another few mouthfuls of the hard liquor. The drink packs less of a hit than Jinki desires, a latent wish that he was not such a tolerant drinker. For once, Jinki would rather not be conscious about the events unfolding. He wants to be the depressed drunk in the corner, not the one being badgered by the very people he despised on Capitol Hill.

"Uh huh."

As expected, his lack of enthusiasm has no effect, the man still persistent and hovering in a manner far too close for personal comfort. He could see the wet lips and smell the accompanying sweetness of brandy, as unsubtle as a smack in the face. Jinki was totally grossed out; this guy was _that type_ : Wife waiting at home, children in bed, but so much clout that there was not an ounce of fear when it came to pursuing extramarital affairs, including those of not the most heteronormative kind.

Not that Jinki should judge a book by its cover, but the thick platinum ring on the hand that touched his own was difficult to ignore. If he wanted to go through the trouble of creating an extra bundle of stress in his life, Jinki would much prefer to contemplate the sinking ship that was supposed to be his blossoming career in the political stratosphere. Actually, that is exactly what he would rather be thinking about at the moment.

"You wanna get out of here?"

Belatedly Jinki realizes that he should have paid more attention to withdrawing his hand. Now those fingers are tracing his own, the creep factor sensation beginning with a brush along his knuckles and jolting almost immediately to the base of his spine. _Ew_ , Jinki thinks; too bad it'd be way too inappropriate to kick the man in the crotch and make a run for it.

But even he can still put on a show; Jinki lets out a soft sigh, the momentum of the night obviously increasing in enjoyment for Kibum, who was sipping silently on a mango cooler with the snidest of smirks. Even with the dim glow of yellow lights, Jinki could still make out that irritating lack of support his companion was giving.

"What do you think?"

The man cannot wipe that shit-faced smile off his face. Therefore Jinki can only return the look by blinking rather sullenly, dreading his predicament as the man continues to speak with resolve.

"Or we could go to the lounge; the tea room's pretty tenebrous right now, just a bunch of dinosaurs at this time of night. Your pick."

Jinki's about to reply when his brain grinds to a halt; hold up, _tenebrous?_ What the hell?

Jinki scrambles in his pockets for a pen, congruently flipping over the fancy cardboard coaster of his drink.

"Can you spell that word you just said?" Jinki is dead serious, already misunderstanding the word tawny and not wanting to appear lacking in vernacular. "The ten-e-whatever. I have a dictionary.com app on my phone."

Even in the lull of waiting for a response, Jinki recognizes the type of silence that follows, awkward and sharp on the ears. This recognition is only confirmed by the gobsmacked expression on Kibum's face, straw dangling from full pink lips.

"Uh."

Jinki continues to extend his pen to the stranger, insistent that he receives an answer. But of course, the one time he displays sincerity is the one time he evokes repulsion – no photo of his mother needed – and the guy quickly backs away, giving an amicable show of apology.

"Actually, I think, yeah, I just remembered I need to be somewhere," the man says hurriedly, edging out of his seat. "I'll see you later, man."

It's something Jinki takes to mean, _never again, you freak_ , not that he minds, shrugging as his courtier leaves with haste. There are more important things to focus on, Jinki punching a guessed spelling of the unknown word onto his phone.

"See–" Kibum returns to his original spot as Jinki discovers the meaning of the adjective: dark; gloomy; obscure.' "I would call you brilliant if you'd done that on purpose, but I know that's a straight-up lie. You're just a _geek_."

Jinki is unfazed, suddenly absorbed in the magical world of apps and smartphones. For one, the international map app he just downloaded is incredibly detailed; travel tips, hotel ratings, non-tourist destinations, the whole shebang.

"Hey, Kibum-ah, where do you think I should go for the next two weeks?"

Kibum rests his chin on Jinki's shoulder, who smiles as he observes the blur of colours on the LCD screen. "Maybe somewhere warm."

By the time he got back, it was going to start getting cold. And busy.

 

 

 

By the time Jinki comes back from his vacation – having spun the globe on his phone and jabbed at a spot with his finger at Key's insistence, luckily it landed on Guadalajara – he's only marginally less discontent. This feeling was exacerbated by him falling asleep every time he tried to start the latest Jonathan Franzen novel while sitting on the beach, screaming children and skimpily clad bodies abound. Same with Aimee Bender. All he had to show for his efforts was enough tan lines to be able to be called a modern art piece and the tip of his nose scraped raw from failed resistance to itching.

Guadalajara is also two hours behind EST, which means that by the time he wakes up with a heady feeling that he's forgotten something extremely important, the alarm on his phone is already going off for the fourth time, as it does, every half hour. He had set it for six, which had given him a little less than an hour to shower, have breakfast, and refill his thermos at the nearest Coffee Bean before heading to work.

The first day of his new job, in fact.

 _Shit_ , is the first thing that comes to mind, and for a split second he almost wants to curl right back under the blanket and fake his own death and/or disappearance so that Key will stop bothering him, but the fact of the matter is that he was curious. Jinki had never felt like a natural leader by any means, but on a few memorable occasions back at the Multnomah County Literacy Program, he had been praised as a good instructor. It was also a self-induced challenge that he could adjust his methods based on the audience.

It was refreshing, in any case. And it was something he could control.

Relying on years of experience reluctantly battling his resistance to morning routines, Jinki somehow manages to roll out of bed, shower, rub a towel through his hair, grab the first clean shirt that isn't horrendously beachy that he can find, pull on a pair of slacks, grab a splotchy banana, and is out the door in twenty minutes. Too bad he's already half an hour late.

The offices of campaign headquarters had been upgraded since the last time he had spent any substantial time there – that is to say, during the last election. Square footage had increased in order to include two dozen more staffers and house individual offices for the fundraisers, top aides, online hands and operation assistants, as well as himself and Kibum, who were co-managing the headquarters. Maps covered the wall space in the central room, while long lines of desks were divided by makeshift cubicles for grouped work stations, decked with pinned advertisements and visual banners, post-it notes and rolled-up slogans. Laptops and phones were laid out every few feet. It was a bustling organization, one that had lead them to success three years ago. Still, things could've gotten off to a better start than they were going now.

When Jinki arrives, Kibum's already handing out the itinerary and informational packets they had spent three hours printing, stapling, and stuffing into individual folders the Friday before he had left. He's probably missed the icebreaker – a half-hearted attempt at The Big Wind Blows – though he was still in time to see them divide into teams for the pre-campaign training.

See, as in, slip into the room much less inconspicuously than he had intended, his jacket already falling off his shoulders but still caught on his elbows as he tries to catch his breath, having mixed up the correct floor with the one two floors below it, and then when the elevator took too long, decided to run up the stairs instead.

And maybe it was the lack of coffee, or maybe he was still on the incorrect floor, because with everyone staring at him in surprise, the first thought that occurs to him is that they definitely had the eyes for it. Belatedly he remembers Kibum's comment about Eunjung hiring all the goodlooking ones, but it was one thing to hear about it and another thing entirely to go through an instant onslaught of one's ego when confronted with a whole crew of more evolved human beings.

Kibum clears his throat, and Jinki glances over, dazed, although he struggles to snap out of it when the lasers shooting from Kibum's eyes hit him square in the face.

"This is Lee Jinki," and the unhidden venom in his voice makes Jinki look down instinctively to see if his shirt is still tucked in, just in case. "He is the co-campaign manager, former communications director to the president, and apparently a peruser of late night activities. You'll find," he says, switching his tone, "that everything we do here is a opportunity to do learn and do things better. For instance, take a look at Jinki here." The staffers obediently turn their eyes once again to Jinki, who struggles not to slouch. "Would you buy what he's selling?"

"Are we talking about his physical presence, or Cargill?" one of the girls in the front speaks up, and everyone starts laughing. Jinki almost can't get angry because they all look so attractive doing it. Almost.

"This isn't a corporate classroom," he says swiftly, stepping up to the front. "We don't sell based on brand names and logos. We have a message to spread, messages with real substance because they're abridged versions of our intended policies to serve the American public. This is not a product you use in your car or your kitchen; this is restructuring the world in which we all inhabit so we can address and accommodate every person's needs as best we can."

"Yeah, but the shirt on your back is from Cargill," says a guy sitting a couple rows back; he has obnoxious, two-toned, blonde brunette hair, but somehow still looks devilishly handsome. "People also depend on capitalism and corporatists to provide what they need."

Jinki's face twitches. "True, corporate sponsors have their own place propping up public entities that contribute to a functioning, productive economy.. But – and we'll discuss this in more detail later – capitalism is not a fundamental component of politics. What's your name?"

The man licks his lips before grinning widely, and Jinki, trying to keep his eyebrows from going up too far, glances over at the man sitting next to him by random chance, then blinks in surprise to see what he's feeling mirrored exactly on his face – but bolded somehow, like all his facial features were outlined with permanent marker.

"I'm Kim Jonghyun," says the blonde, diverting his attention once more, and Jinki gives him a tight smile in response; he can already tell he isn't going to like him.

 

 

 

"Dude, that's my shirt."

"I don't care," says Minho, feeling bitchy. "I'm completely broke now, so we're sharing until you can stockpile some button-ups the next time you go to Walmart."

Jonghyun makes an 'oh' shape with his mouth, and Minho wants to slug him. "Do they have Walmart around here?"

"I don't _know_ – I don't live here either."

There was technically no difference between DC and Gainesville time, but Minho's body still wasn't cooperating with the thirty or so degrees difference in temperature, which meant that everything he did felt lethargic and sodden with fatigue, like he was trying to move through daily life while swimming in a vat of peanut butter.

Naturally, this was when he'd get mugged for the first time.

Coming out of a Rite Aid with some basic essentials – razor, dish detergent, a pack of Oreos as a poor excuse for breakfast – he'd gotten ten steps towards the bus stop before someone jabbed what he later learned was a small flashlight in his backside, demanding his wallet and cell phone before shoving him to the ground for good measure, and by the time Minho had gotten over the initial shock to scramble back up and kick some ass, everything was gone except for the flashlight.

Try paying the Metro Transit with _that_.

It's not typical of Minho's nature to complain, but after spending a good six years building up his academic credentials in the midst of stints with the Peace Corps and community organizing, he had been finally ready to settle down into a prolonged bout of educational learning, acceptance to law school at U of F – and two hours away from fucking DisneyWorld; the happiest place on earth indeed. Then Jonghyun had yanked him out of his moderate comfort with sedentary student living with a surprise application to some kind of temp gig for the upcoming campaign to reelect the president of the United States, which Minho had been totally down for, deferral request submitted and U-Haul truck rented – up until he realized the full irony of living in the surrounding neighborhood of the nation's capital.

"That's just your typical DC orientation," Jonghyun had told him after Minho had come home, half-traumatized and full-out filled with rage. "Someone stole my order while I went to get napkins the other day at McDonald's."

Granted, he had tried to make up for it a few days later, when he came back to their two bedroom apartment with a half Chihuahua, half pug mix in his arms, the runt of the litter, this tiny thing with dark fur and large, glittering eyes; they had named her [Marjory.](http://pics.hoobly.com/full/K9VE8L7NFP4QR8YHLQ.jpg)

Jory was currently trying to make him feel better by sitting directly on his feet; unfortunately, it was totally working. Minho bends down to pick her up, tucks her under his arm and walks to the kitchen to refill her bowl – because naturally he couldn't count on Jonghyun to do it.

"So what do you think of our boss?" Jonghyun calls from the living room.

"I think he's..." Minho pauses with folding back the paper bag of dog food before hefting it up and tipping a small amount into the dog dish next to the refrigerator. "Eat slowly, Jory," he warns, "that's all you get tonight, you're getting chubby—" He puts the bag back on the counter, watches her eat. "I think he's going to be different."

"I've heard of him," Jonghyun muses. "Ex-comm director at the White House, right?"

"That's what Kibum said."

"Oh my god, Kim Kibum," Jonghyun groans. "Why do I feel like he's going to be the biggest source of regret I'll have on this job?"

"Everyone needs one," Minho says pleasantly. "You're mine, after all."

"I love you too."

But it _was_ a strange affair, how the president's main speechwriter was suddenly rubbing shoulders with commonplace volunteers, hires for the summer, subjected to coffee runs from Chevron stations and fast food fries and chicken tenders, instead of the cellophane wrapped, higher class stuff they probably get from vending machine prototypes stationed within walking distance of the Oval Office.

At least, that's what the rumors were.

And even food is less important than reputation. As far as Minho has heard, Lee Jinki had a unique brand of brilliance, a way of wording things that struck at the core of your soul, that made you step outside and hop in your car and get fifteen bucks worth of stamps for all that canvassing you'll be doing for the next few weeks. He was a wizard, he wrought diction and syntax with an unyielding but unifying public image that the president pulled off so well. After the previous term, the administration had set a high standard for eloquence, almost single-handedly thanks to the notorious communications director.

So really, when he showed up at the office at approximately a quarter after nine that morning, the two-inch gap between Minho's top and bottom lip was due to awe and please can I have your autograph? Just as much as it was seeing Lee Jinki in a Cargill polo, his hair fluffed out, half dried, shirt tucked in the front but not the back, the skin around his eyes the color of a healing bruise, like he hadn't slept in two days – which, for all he knew, might have been the truth. Otherwise, he looked like he was twelve.

"Different," Minho murmurs again, as Marjory crunches away. Well, he always loved challenges.

 

 

 

But not quite a challenge like this.

By the time everyone else is assigned to color-coded teams and lining up to take headshots for their ID badge, Minho's left on the sidelines in a daze, pressure added by the heavy weight of Jinki's gaze as he glances between his clipboard – which was so what the fuck, this wasn't summer camp – and his face, some kind of superficial scrutiny that said nothing about the five-page CV he knew Jinki had on file, which was just so typically East Coast Ivy League shenanigans and if there's one thing Minho won't put up with, it's chip on the shoulder bullshit—

"You can be my personal assistant," Jinki smiles at him suddenly, and Minho feels a flood of relief, in addition to an understandable amount of curiosity of being singled out from his peers for what – he guesses anyway, it's been a while since he's been in a semi-corporate setting – would be a coveted position of support to the brains behind the campaign.

However, after two days into the gig, Minho's starting to think that maybe, Jinki just hates him.

 

 

 

Jinki doesn't hate Minho.

It might _seem_ like he does, especially after two weeks of making him fetch coffee and sort mail and Minho kind of gives him this look every time he says his name like he's biting back a retort and or withholding a punch to the face, but ever since he let it slip that he graduated with a degree in Communications from South Florida Community College, spent the next two years in Honduras for the Peace Corps, got accepted into law school at University of Florida and had been apartment-hunting in Gainesville up until his spontaneous relocation – or rather, roommate strongarming – to DC for the campaign, Jinki figures the one thing that could bring down someone who had basically conquered the world was to make sure they were really, really bored.

Okay, so maybe he was a little resentful. Apparently even former speechwriters for the most powerful man in the world could be vindictive.

Or maybe that was it. Maybe by being guided by his ambition, by climbing up the political ladder, Jinki became dismayed at how much more restrictive it was; how, with power, came all these things that you could no longer do. Including making a difference – at least in an effective, timely fashion. As the backbone of bureaucracy, Jinki has never organized a campaign for food and health education, held youth projects and provide activities as alternative pastimes to keep them off the streets, to build water sanitation stations, to feel your compassion turn into affection after building real relationships with names and faces that you see every day, for streets you walk down to visit friends and host families, or simply to buy a killer pastelitos de carne for lunch.

And it wasn't fair to take it out on the guy, but then again – because this was totally a good reason – he was also startlingly handsome. Soulful black eyes that locked on you and didn't waver for a second; Jinki hated how he always had to look away first. Sharp lines inscribed a square jaw, pronounced the planes of his cheekbones; neither could his height and build be excused as anything ordinary.

It just wasn't something you could ignore; in fact, it was the very first thing that came to mind.

To also learn that he had already accomplished so much while also being two years younger gave Jinki this consistently rankled feeling that put him in such a bad mood – which wasn't hate! just annoyed as sin – he soon began to realize that the only possible catharsis was to attack the root of the problem.

"You know how to make eggs?" Jinki asks. "Spanish-style, like deep-fried in olive oil so that it's golden on the sides and just a _little_ bit runny, with some Maldon sea salt on top?" Minho gives him a sour look.

"No," he says, and yet his tone is amicable – which was impressive; at least he knew how to keep professional. "I can learn, though."

"That's great," Jinki says warmly. "Keep on taking the initiative, that'll get you far."

In the reflection of his MacBook screen, he can see Minho giving him the finger over his shoulder.

It's enough to make his day.

 

 

 

"So what was on the menu this morning, three-tiered waffles?" asks Jonghyun, chewing on a breadstick. They're at Olive Garden for an early dinner on a Saturday night, early because Minho hadn't eaten anything all day after being called into the office at 7:30 in the morning for an impromptu meeting on next month's strategy for the West Coast states.

Minho mechanically spoons some minestrone into his mouth; Jonghyun is kind enough not to point out that it's actually for his tea. "Nothing. Not even a granola bar. I had forgotten the coffee because I went straight to the office after I showered, but he didn't bring it up at all; I spent the entire time taking minutes as they roundtabled their way around some kind of agenda—"

"I was kidding, Choi," Jonghyun says quietly. As much as they clash on a daily basis, seeing his roommate walk around – when he could see him, that is, the guy had some crazy hours – with eyebags the size of the Sargasso Sea was probably not the best indication of job satisfaction. "The real question is, why the hell are you on breakfast duty anyway? You're supposed to be an assistant, not a butler. It's not what you signed up for, man – to know the difference between poached and scrambled or whatever the shit."

"It's not what _you_ signed me up for," Minho corrects, then sighs, dropping his wrong sized spoon back into the bowl. "But like hell if I know what he's got planned. I'm only deferring six months for this, okay? If he keeps pulling this stuff, then after February, you're on your own."

"That's barely the start of election season!" But Jonghyun gets it. While the rest of them are working on press releases and drawing wide circles for televised infographics, Minho has yet to have a desk assigned to him, which just plain sucks. More often than not the poor guy has his ass balanced on the edge of someone else's desk, asking for important documents sealed in eight and a half by eleven manila envelopes to run back down between cubicles and corridors, sometimes between buildings for a little fresh air, if he's lucky. A glorified paper boy.

Jonghyun likes his job well enough – it's exciting and at the hub of all that anyone's going to be talking about for the next ten months – but he's really starting to feel bad.

"Listen, the guy has issues," he says, fork poised over his plate. "Just remember you're not one of them, all right? He got demoted a month before we even started. They _made_ him go on vacation before he snapped and went down in history, not as a writer but a whistleblower. He's had to adjust to a lot; the only reason you're his bullseye is because you're so fucking noticeable. And as much as I hate to admit it, that's not your fault either."

Minho, head bent over his stuffed chicken marsala, looks up suddenly, blinking in surprise. "Wait, did you just say something nice? About me?"

"I am so nice to you," Jonghyun protests, piercing a piece of breaded eggplant for emphasis. "I have all the best intentions!" Then he sighs, because what the hell. "And I don't want you to leave."

He looks up to meet Minho's gaze, a sappy albeit sleep-deprived smile hanging off his lips; sometimes he thinks he ought to do more to earn the right to see it. "I'll stay," Minho says finally, and Jonghyun rolls his eyes while simultaneously conveying his gratitude, which makes the other man scowl. "For Marjory."

Fair enough; he probably deserved that.

 

 

 

For Minho, even with a night well-saturated with spaghetti and pasta sauce, he still avoids telling Jonghyun about the worst part. The worst part was that the same day he had filed for his deferment was also the day he had received a full scholarship from Indiana University, provided he begin his studies with them next semester.

Unfortunately, an election and a shitty boss got in the way.

As far as he knew, turning down a scholarship was definitely not one of his life goals. Minho had always been a risk taker, unconventional in the standards of owning a certain set of 500-page textbooks by the time you're twenty-five, but he had had Telgucigalpa, he had had the confines of a small, hipster community – priceless stuff, in his opinion. Still, this was pushing it; in addition to youth outreach and nutrition ed, he had also busted his ass for two years at 22 credits a semester to get to this point, and just because of one well-landed application suddenly turned into a nightmare – even if it was history in the making – maybe it wasn't worth it at this point in his life.

"Give me a reason," Minho mutters to himself, and he's not sure if he's speaking to Jonghyun, currently across the table making his way through a thick piece of chocolate cheesecake, or to one Lee Jinki.


	2. Chapter 2

Apparently, what is considered fair compensation for being late to the new job is two straight weeks of staying in and locking up the offices, which was just so suitable for a Kim Kibum brand of punishment. Sure, his mistake may have set back the authoritative presence he was supposed to have inspired, co-captain of the fast train, first impressions on the young blood and all, but things were not progressing as badly as Jinki thought. Surely he deserved pity from the constant 12 hour work days.

Such as right now, Friday night in the offices, cleared of people but not their traces. Jinki walks between the spaces of tightly arranged cubicles, toeing the scattered sheets of paper and avoiding stray sharp protrusions: Staples, pins, paperclips. They were in the full-swing of campaign mode, teams working from the menial end of line, stapling fliers and folding brochures; to men manning the lines, throwing phones over desks and speaking to the American people. Other spaces were piled high with boxes, full of all that fun paraphernalia: obnoxious blue, white and red hats, and paper flags to match. The chaos in preparation for public events, long lists on clipboards, a rough schedule written out in red on their massive whiteboard. Oh, and of course, empty coffee cups in every space imaginable.

It’s not a mess one man can handle, so Jinki leaves the room as is and makes a mental note to buy some donuts for the cleaning crew, his apology.

That decision made, Jinki should be returning home, thinking about how to convince an old associate from Yale – high maintenance and hard to please – to attend the NYC gala in a few weeks. One would think being an alumni would enough of a qualifier, celebrating the success of proud graduates and all, but this lady had an eye for perfection. Jinki dreaded the thought of creating multiple simpering e-mails attuned to her favorite turns of phrase, as well as sending her a bouquet of carnations, her favourite.

Unfortunately the blueprints to his plan do not have a chance to develop because when Jinki heads to the door, hands on the dial to dim the lights, a glow appears from one of the cubicles. Shadows move and a strange sense of nostalgia bubbles up; an enthused youth staying behind, working unpaid hours for the sake of completing tasks to perfection, for the sake of making a difference. That work ethic, that wasted effort, Jinki has already learned is all for naught. However, this guy has no clue of such a reality, and Jinki begrudgingly trots over.

“Hey, some people like to go home before midni—” Jinki’s eyes narrow. “–What are you doing?”

Not an idealist after all; just his assistant, for all intents and purposes. His initial reaction is to kick Minho out, no questions asked, but instead Jinki stares wide-eyed, baffled as the man who is an irritatingly four inches taller, is far beneath him and prostrate on the ground. When Minho does rise, his head hits the edge of the desk and Jinki cringes, hearing the hard knock and muffled curses. Yet, as if not bewildering enough, Minho for once has the gull to ignore him (and the pain), continuing to scour the floor. Only seconds later, Minho is up on his feet, padding down his pockets, expression dark enough it was borderline Dateline special kind of scary.

He knew he should’ve bagged his Leatherman.

“...Is everything okay?”

Minho glances at him – or rather, glares, either way it’s almost enough to scour his eyeballs out. “It’s nothing,” he says gruffly, and something about the way he only gives him enough attention to answer his question before his eyes are darting around once more, away and inattentive, makes Jinki feel inexplicably uneasy. “I misplaced my keys.”

“Oh.” Maybe it’s just a reflex, but Jinki crouches down, in search for a glimmer of anything, nudging over dusty power strips and peeling apart cables before Minho cuts in abruptly, like he can’t believe this is actually happening.

“Don’t—” Jinki hears him say, before he stops, then starts again. “I mean, thanks, but it’s okay. I’ve already looked there, I’ll just go through this stuff on my desk—”

“Wait a second,” Jinki pokes his head from underneath the desk, almost knocking into Minho’s arm. “Don’t you have a roommate? Kim Jonghyun? Can’t he just let you in?”

For being such a whiz kid, that simple logic seems to have escaped the man, and Jinki finds himself leaning back until he’s staring straight at him, biting back his annoyance at this missed connection. He’s not entirely surprised to see it matched in full, their expressions exact mirrors, just like the first day they met; even so, it’s hard not to be taken aback. But the most interesting thing was how, at the last second, Minho seems to catch himself; it was like watching a living art form, the smooth mask sliding into place as the other man takes a short, deep breath before giving a small apologetic nod and digging out his cell. Even though a line of tension was still running along his jaw, the back of his neck and shoulders; the only reason why Jinki knew of the falsification was because he had seen it in action.

It was a talent worthy of a politician.

“—What? Again?”

Jinki dusts himself and gets back on his feet, listening to the phone conversation off-hand.

“Just go home then!” Minho runs a hand through his hair, shirt ruffled and, Jinki suspects, not having the most successful conversation.

“You’re telling me to wait outside?” Now Minho is pacing, fist closed at his side. “Where the fuck am I supposed to wait at this hour? Do you not recall I was _mugged_ last time?”

Jinki blinks, his mouth falling open slightly, an _I’m so sorry_ on his lips before he swallows it back down. Shit, was he actually starting to feel bad for the guy?

“Fine. _Fine._ ” Minho is sighing into his phone; at this point, Jinki’s feeling a little uncomfortable. “Just call me when you’re ready.”

“Fuck.” Minho’s thumb hits the screen of his phone, a beep indicating the end of his call before he practically falls onto the nearest chair. Long fingers proceed to rub at his temples, and although Jinki can surmise the conclusion of the conversation, he asks anyway.

“So, going home?”

“Yeah right, he’s partying again.” Minho doesn’t bother moving; slouched, bitter, and defeated. “Told me to wait till he had his fill, whatever the fuck that means.”

Jinki’s counted three curses in the span of less than a minute – certainly no world record, but still, in a subtle manner, a cry for help.

“Where are you going to wait?” It’s not like Jinki actually cares, but as a superior, he does have some obligation to the safety of his workers – or at least, that’s how the reasoning should go.

“...The front lounge of the building stays unlocked, right?”

And there’s no reason whatsoever that Jinki should feel anything or think that Minho’s eyes have gotten rounder, a little less handsome and a notch more vulnerable. However, if Jinki does have to make a reason, it might have something to do with the whole pathetic nature of the situation, pure tragedy for a young guy to be bumming around alone on a Friday night. If anything, it’s the only reason Jinki feels sympathy (or so he tells himself), contemplating a decision with a roundabout catch.

“Have you eaten?”

Minho gives him that look he had seen only before he started being a deliberately demanding shithead, cautious and almost alarmed.

“No?”

“Well, I’m ordering pizza.”

Those long lashes flutter in confusion, and Jinki frustratingly finds his own gaze trailing away from the handsome face.

“I usually end up wasting half anyway,” Jinki says, grasping at a last minute explanation, not filling enough of the gaps to be completely transparent, but enough to give a good hint.

Minho takes the bait. “Need someone to finish the rest?”

“Need someplace to stay?” Jinki quickly bites back, choosing to focus on Minho’s fingers, which happen to be juggling the phone.

“Hey...thanks.”

It’s an odd exchange, but it works, neither side having to give up too much of their dignity, and Jinki feeling a smidgen less guilty for his treatment of the guy having a hard time – although Minho still deserved it – being put up for daily challenges.

Walking to the door, Jinki waits quietly as Minho follows, the guy hoisting an informal thin trench over broad shoulders, swinging a scarf around his neck, and looking like one of those college overachievers, right down to the douchebag dress code. Those were the types Jinki had avoided at all costs, chumps trying to run an absurd winter fashion show in early fall. Jinki, however, decides to keep his mental commentary to himself. In fact, he remains completely silent, walking in quick strides down the halls, to the elevator, and into the basement parking lot. He only has the slight of mind to make sure Minho is behind him when he reaches Lucinda, shined up thanks to an unexpectedly warm last weekend.

Of course, he didn’t need to worry – Minho is right there (the guy seriously had some crazy long legs), pausing to stare his car up and down. Jinki is no fool; he can read that brief look of disbelief, but he prefers to ignore it, since no judgment could be more devastating than the tongue lashing received by Kibum.

“Need to put your stuff in the trunk?”

Jinki eyes Minho’s book bag, slung over the man’s shoulder. Another choice in style that made the man look modern, not overstated, but still such a jag.

“I can hold it.”

It irritates Jinki because Minho replies without looking at him, instead eyeing what Jinki assumes is the rust on the passenger door, something he could not control without paying a hefty bill that would cost more than his car. Again, Jinki refrains from acting, unlocking the doors and climbing into the driver’s seat. No point in starting something when the guy was going to be spending the night. If possible, it was in Jinki’s best intentions to prevent the escalation of awkwardness.

Unfortunately, that goal is difficult to accomplish once Jinki realizes he hasn’t had another passenger in his car for months. That detail is obvious once Minho opens the door to a seat piled high with pamphlet proofs and discarded paper napkins from Panera.

“Uh, let me get that.”

Jinki is not helping the reputation of his ride whatsoever, haphazardly tossing the documents and trash to the backseat, which also held other not so triumphant details of his life: A sleeping bag and two cases of ginger ale. Yet, thoughtfully enough, Minho makes no further comment, slipping into his seat quietly. The polite silence makes Jinki rethink that maybe the guy isn’t as judgmental as he made him out to be.

“So what’d you name her?”

Jinki blinks midway into through their drive; otherwise, there had been no sound other than the buzz of NPR, broadcasting a recap of the night’s news.

“Name her?”

Red light.

“Your car?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the steering wheel as his foot presses into the brake, but that effort alone doesn’t stop Jinki from feeling the gaze boring into his skull.

“She looks well-cared for, despite all the...stuff.” The simple explanation said in a voice that Jinki could only really describe as coming from the soles of one’s feet. “I figured you must’ve given her a name.”

In a strange way, Jinki’s touched.

“Lucinda.”

Minho laughs, the kind of failed attempt at holding a grin back through long fingers. Jinki’s not sure if it was meant to be mocking, but like the first day of work, being attractive makes the questionable intent almost bearable.

Okay, so Jinki did look away from the wheel, just for a second.

“That really suits her – I like it.”

The green light acting as his savior, Jinki lets the brief conversation drop, foot to the pedal and eyes on the road. Perhaps it was just the remnants of severe introversion, but Jinki finds himself wanting this whole endeavour to be as painless as possible. Which is why, when they reach the intended destination, Jinki plays the role of neglectful host once again. Immediately after parking the car outside his apartment complex, Jinki barely pays any attention to Minho after his feet hit the pavement.

Jinki’s already inside the brick building, skidding down the hallways, up the stairs (nine flights because that was really his only exercise beyond dashing back and forth in between offices), until he’s down the familiar carpeted hallways, dim globe lights and musty white walls. Key quickly jammed into the lock so that as soon as he steps in, relief floods his senses at the sight of what could only be described as the prototypical bachelor pad. Only that relief is short-lived as Jinki hears a set of footsteps enter behind him. It had definitely been a foolish hope in thinking that he could somehow escape, especially since Minho had the appearance of an athletic god that could stay on Jinki’s heels with ease.

“Make yourself at home.” Jinki concedes defeat, albeit a little late, motioning Minho to his tight living room space.

“Thanks.” Minho looks around carefully before squeezing past Jinki and sitting gingerly down on the couch.

“The remote is on the table.” Jinki really dreads the blank look the younger man gives him. “I have digital. Over 100 channels. HD, even. Um, pick what you like.”

“Oh, sure – thanks.”

Another stiff as hell response, and Jinki takes it upon himself to realize that it was likely his fault, the receded lights above his head, screaming that not another soul had entered his apartment for months on end. Entertaining people was truly beyond him ,and as for inviting romantic interests, that was another self-explanatory point. Master of his domain, Jinki liked to tell himself – or just really, really sad.

Thoughts steeped in utter tragedy are interrupted when Jinki’s buzzer sounds. He gives Minho a quick _excuse me_ glance before returning moments later, pizza box in hand with a side of hot wings and a thick stack of napkins. There’s also a six pack of beer and ginger ale – a custom mix and match – hanging off two fingers, trying to be accommodating but also realizing that those were really the only two options in Jinki’s fine abode.

Jinki places everything in front of the television, currently flickering between scenes on the local ABC news hour, something Minho probably chose as neutral ground. Not that such a decision bothers Jinki as he opens the box, the en masse effect of greasy cheese, tangy sauces, and dry chicken strips enough to make his head spin with hunger. Stomach growling, lunch having only been a stale biscotti that Kibum had chucked at his head, Jinki readies himself to dive in.

“Delivery is fast in DC, huh?”

And of course, it’s small talk that stops him just short.

“What do you mean?” Jinki leans into his seat at the other end of the sofa, physically dejected that he couldn’t just wolf the whole meal down, before catching himself and straightening up, trying to appear more civilized for once.

“Well,” Minho explains in a manner that appears to involve a deliberate choice of words, “I didn’t see you call for delivery, so if you did it just now—”

“I used the Domino’s Pizza app before driving here,” Jinki interjects a little too casually, only then recalling Kibum’s sardonic look from the last time he revealed such details about his life.

It’s not Jinki’s fault he was a man of the 21st century – or perhaps, to be more accurate, just _that_ sad.

“That’s pretty resourceful.”

Oh. Okay.

“It’s better than waiting around, right?”

Minho takes a bite of his pizza earnestly, looking like some trendy advertisement that would have everyone under the age of thirty-five calling up Domino’s right this second. Jinki just hopes that his flabbergasted feelings won’t show this opinion, because first of all, no one approves of his indiscretions with the app world, and secondly, no one would be so complacent with the state of his car. Especially if one takes Choi Minho into perspective – it simply goes against common sense that he would be so nice to his superior. After all, Jinki could still recall with a twisted sense of satisfaction, the discouraged looks and straight middle fingers he had received.

Unless, Minho thinks this turn of events was a chance to receive brownie points.

Fat chance that was going to happen. Jinki was no pushover to flattery, and hell if he started now.

Satisfied with this conclusion, Jinki blatantly disregards Minho, reaching for the largest of the uneven pizza slices. Two hands on the crust, dough sagging with all the toppings, Jinki digs in. Truly astounding, the way the taste of cheap food could make his mood turn around from the hair-tearing stressors that are continually present.

He’s tearing into a chicken wing by the time Minho makes another attempt at small talk, a courteous undertaking that he’s not sure why the man seems so set upon.

“So...you like chicken? I mean, on your pizza.”

Who _doesn’t?_ is what Jinki wants to say, although at the last minute he remembers to refrain from being a wiseass, as Kibum so affectionately referred to him.

“Yeah.”

A curt response should end things, right? Just watch the television, Choi.

“I’m more of a Hawaiian person myself.”

“You mean _pineapples?_ ” Jinki finds himself disgusted in more ways than one: First because Minho did not get the obvious message to shut up, and second, because pineapples just violates all combined principles of the salty, savory taste of ingredients on a flat piece of dough.

“Hey, they’re good!” Minho laughs, a friendly attempt to defend himself. “Adds some sweetness, you know?”

And if Jinki had not already been hardened against the façade of gorgeous faces and charming smiles, he might have fallen for Minho’s words. There were some uses to his developed cynicism from the political field, after all.

“Yeah right, good,” Jinki scoffs, tone still unforgiving and enough to earn him a weak smile in return. Maybe, if he had so much as a sliver of compassion left, maybe that look would’ve made him feel slightly guilty; but he doesn’t, and Jinki quickly rejects that thought, moving on to his fourth slice.

Food alone, however, cannot distract his eyes from an all-too familiar thirty second advertisement, the one they had approved for the airwaves earlier this week; the television projecting an image of his boss at the top, the one and only POTUS. Images and slogans roll by: The man playing golf, being a dedicated father, speaking in front of congress and the nation; ‘The man to reduce the deficit’, ‘The man who upholds education as a top priority, ‘A president who has united a nation.’ Jinki makes no effort to stop his scornful laugh; it looked even less convincing on live broadcast.

“Have to launch the hype somehow.” The backhanded comment. The slip.

“Isn’t that your – our boss?”

Jinki pauses, remembering all over again this this shit didn’t sail anymore; he was no longer privy to an environment where he could openly scorn the cause he was supposed to be supporting.

“So you don’t think you’re working for the right side?” Minho continues to prod, his expression inquiring but not threatening.

“It’s choosing the lesser of two evils.” Jinki really sees no reason to lie, reaching for a beer. “I’m just in it for the paycheck.”

“There are other jobs you could be working at if you were only in it for the money,” Minho comments, tone light but his stare intense, and Jinki fails once again to tear his own gaze away. “There must be something that binds you to this job. I mean, when people succeed in their ambitions, it would be difficult to believe that they would be doing something they didn’t have faith in.”

“You’d be surprised what people can do.” Jinki’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, scraping the flesh as he tries to suppress the unexpected, unnamed surge of hurt; Minho’s words rang with a kind of clear naivete that he hadn’t heard in ages. “You’ll learn that in a couple years if you stay in the political playground, kid.”

“That doesn’t change my point.” Minho is unwavering, choosing not to bite back at the petty attack on his experience. “If this is the kind of environment the job entails, why would you stay? There’s a reason.”

_Now_ he’s pissed. If Jinki wanted a therapy session, he would hire a professional, not some starry-eyed guy who got around on good looks.

“Are you looking for some inspired motivation, the proverbial American Dream?” Jinki wipes the grease from his fingertips, appetite totally dead. “Fighting for liberty, equality, freedom of speech, or if I may be so ambitious, eliminating economic disparity? Sure, those things are nice to believe in, until you realize they’re all nothing more than semantics.”

Jinki’s breath is uneven; as stressful as his days are, he hasn’t felt this worked up since his previous time in the White House.

“Words have power.”

Jinki blinks; it’s not the response he expected. Minho is not discouraged in the slightest, instead giving Jinki another one of those looks, this sanguine mixture of determination and reluctant admiration – at least, for things Jinki did before he met him.

“If it’s all semantics,” Minho continues, “then you’re the master of them. That’s what you offer.”

That sick to your stomach feeling, as if your diary has been opened, the most important pages read by an unwanted visitor; Jinki frowns, a borderline grimace. If his book was to be read, it was only fair for him to intrude himself.

“What’s your purpose, then?” Postponing a future in law school, experience beyond any young twenty-something year old, Choi Minho must have had a reason as well.

Jinki is correct with his hypothesis; Minho looks embarrassed, his hands wringing together.

“Well, it probably sounds pretty stupid,” Minho explains, and Jinki couldn’t find himself agreeing more, after hearing the man’s opinions. “But sometimes you have to put your foot down, like an intervention?”

“After racking up over $100 000 in student loans, watching student protests for every cause possible, being in an environment that touts the phrase ‘critical thinking’... You get tired you know?” Minho’s eyes are focused, voice growing in confidence with every passing syllable. “Tired of being the one to analyze and criticize, constantly putting your beliefs into papers or presentations that won’t reach outside some academic or private privileged sphere. I guess when this opportunity came up, it was telling me to put my money where my mouth was, to actually do something instead of complaining without giving solutions. The effort seems meaningless otherwise, right?”

By no means the most articulate or eloquent declaration, but Jinki finds his empathy being drawn forth despite his best efforts to deny it. The quiet observation is left on his tongue.

“You’re one of those types.” Jinki swallows, tongue pressed between dry lips. “You’d be happy if your job involved changing one person at a time.”

Minho gives the affirmative nod, eyes back on the television with a soft whisper.

“It has to start somewhere. Why not one person, then a community, a city, a state...”

_A country._

It’s unmistakable, that determined glint in shining black eyes, one that makes Jinki want to choke with disbelief yet also stare in complete awe.

_The presidency._

That explains the resolute stance of optimism.

“Marjory!”

What the— “Huh?”

Minho barely registers the audio of his boss questioning him, his eyes glued to the current commercial, puppies playing Frisbee before enjoying a meal of commercial brand dog food.

“My dog.” Minho thinks of her big black eyes, his heart racing.

“Oh, you have a dog? You know that brand, they sent me a sample in the—”

“No one’s home to feed her!”

Minho’s mind is already spinning into pre-panic as he jumps up, coat already swung around his shoulders and arms reaching for his belongings.

“Ah, thanks for the meal but I need to go.”

A mad shuffle ensues as he tries to squeeze himself between the table, the sofa, and Jinki’s legs all at once, tripping over a stack of books as he heads the door, more than one indication that he can no longer think straight. But who could blame him? His whole body was charged, imagining the sad whines and drooping eyes of his little baby. He needed to save Marjory, knock down his fucking door, strangle Jonghyun for being an irresponsible partying prick—

“Woah, get a grip.”

Jinki’s hand is looped around his wrist, tight and grounded.

“You don’t even have a key.” The warm voice of reason, slowly seeping into his skin and calming his sudden rush of adrenaline. “What would you do once you got there? Your dog can skip one meal, can’t she?”

“She’s just a puppy,” Minho mutters, as if that was reason enough to defy rational logic.

The look he receives in response, an arched brow and inquisitive eyes is enough to make Minho freeze, puffing as he gathers himself and stares down at his boss.

“Do you need a ride?”

The automatic retort dies with a surprised exhale; this was the third time Lee Jinki offered to save him in one night, despite all the fear and loathing he wielded in the office.

The guy was so weird.

  
  
  
  
  


The whole incomprehensibility of the night is why Minho figures it’s okay to lose his shit for half an hour; when they finally stop outside of his apartment complex, it’s his turn to leave Jinki behind – a complete role reversal, where instead of Minho barely catching the door as the code is punched in, it’s Jinki jamming his hand between the doorframe so he is not locked out.

He’ll apologize later, but there are higher priorities as he runs to the second floor of the building, halting with bated breath outside his door.

“Jory?” The half-shout and knock on the door, hopefully loud enough for her to hear, but not loud enough to disturb the neighbours at midnight.

Then Minho hears it, the heartbreaking scamper of paws down his hardwood floor, a tiny whimper and squeaked barks.

“Jory—” Minho crouches and almost sighs with relief, knowing that she was still alive (and why wouldn’t she be, but panic overrides that bit of logic). “I’ll get to you somehow, okay?”

“Gonna dash through the door or break it down?”

Minho turns to the voice, Jinki wheezing and crouching down to be level with him.

“I’m not in charge of your salary,” Jinki pronounces, and Minho can detect that the man was probably annoyed at being thrown away so quickly, “but after hearing about your debt, I’m not sure you’d want to pay your landlord for those kinds of repairs.”

Of course he’s right, but Minho still can’t give up. “I have to get to her.”

“Remember what Kibum said?”

Minho really doesn’t think this is the time to run through psychological strategies; instead of answering, he sticks his fingers as far as they’ll fit underneath the door frame, feeling Marjory lick at them. She was right _there_ and yet Minho felt beyond helpless — irresponsible for losing his keys, stupid for not thinking about her beforehand, and a complete pushover for not convincing his roommate to get the fuck home.

“Fine, ignore me.”

Minho glances towards Jinki, the man withdrawing a bag from his pocket.

“I just hope she won’t bite me.”

A heart shaped kibble is suddenly clasped between two fingers, and Minho watches as Jinki slips a thumb in the crack beneath door. The man clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Minho bears witness to an even stranger occurrence of the night.

“Here, Jory. Try some.” Jinki speaks softly, a tone so velvety that it makes the insides of Minho’s ears warm. That sensation only becomes enhanced when Jinki giggles from what Minho assumes is Marjory licking the man’s fingers, especially satisfying after hearing the crunch of her accepting the mystery food.

Calm, almost sweetly, Jinki continues this process, withdrawing one pellet after another from a mailbox sample of commercial dog food. Consequently, it is only excusable that Minho is more than a little bit astounded.

The tyrant, the man who had made his move to Washington a living nightmare, an experience that Minho could honestly consider a regret without any positives; here he was, playing with a puppy of all things. To think Lee Jinki was actually human and albeit, a bitter pill to swallow, Minho had to admit the man was also generous. If it wasn’t for Jinki, the _both_ of them would be starving, and Minho would’ve likely had to call his creditors to cancel another stolen card.

Somehow it seemed the correct timing for an apology, though Minho struggles to come up with a solid reason why.

“Thanks for everything.” He braces the heel of his hand against the door, an attempt to transfer warmth to Jory on the other side. “And sorry for ignoring you earlier; you were right.”

Jinki just smiles, unfazed from his task in feeding the unseen but assumed to be adorable pet. “Remember how Kibum said every moment is a learning opportunity? Consider this another one, except it’s the most important lesson you’ll learn: I’m always right.”

It’s a joke, blunt yet somehow still excusable from the man he thought didn’t have a shred of mercy, and Minho unexpectedly finds himself chuckling. In this light, he had to concede that somehow, Jinki had become a little more pleasant and maybe even a little more attractive: A secret 100 kilowatt smile of charm.

“She’s tiny, isn’t she?” Jinki has a small grin planted on his lips, and Minho feels a slight warmth on his cheek as he continues to observe. “Her tongue can’t be any wider that the tip of my thumb.”

“Yeah.”

The bag empties, and Minho knows that he has effectively screwed over any attempts at having Marjory on a set diet. However, he also presumes that she deserves the extra treat, having to suffer due to his mishap. His hand goes back under the door; he can feel Marjory’s face rub against the tips of his fingers, wet nose and warm huffs of tired exhales. She was probably going to sleep, alone at the front door.

“Sorry, Jory,” Minho apologizes with a sad look aimed at the unyielding wooden slab, “I won’t ever let this happen again, I promise.”

He should also tell Jinki thanks once more before strongly suggesting that he can leave – at the very least, begin the head charge into alleviating all the awkwardness that was surely going to crop up once daylight breaks. Only when Minho turns his head to follow through on his intentions, he discovers it’s not very possible anymore: Jinki is fast asleep, slouched against the doorway, hand curled against the floor, head dropped and eyes closed.

Minho glances at the darkened skin beneath black lashes, the bruised, panda bear eyes still significant in all they implied and yet, at he same time, also kind of cute. He wonders if he’s ruined Jinki’s only night to rest, and eventually lands at the conclusion that it would be a shame to wake the man. Even if they slept in the hallway, Jinki was slumped over enough that Minho was pretty sure his neighbors wouldn’t recognize him, and to be perfectly frank, he was in no mood to carry his boss down the stairs.

At this point, they both deserved a little shut eye.

  
  
  
  
  


“Dude, wake up.”

A swift kick shocks Minho from his slumber, groaning as he blinks up, irritated and confused.

“Are you going to get inside or not? I don’t mind leaving you here like a bum, but just remember, your fresh morning scent is totally not my fault.”

Jonghyun.

Minho’s eyes snap open as he scrambles for his phone, eyeing the digits with a blurred gaze. He makes out the numbers – three fucking thirty in the morning.

Marjory barks and Minho blinks some more.

Lee Jinki.

“Hey,” Minho groans, his body not in sync with his mind quite yet, “Where’s—”

“Our boss?” Jonghyun finishes, brow arching in that manner that Minho finds irritatingly keen. “You two losers were sleeping on the front door step. He woke up when I came by closer, though. He already left.”

“Oh.” Minho bites his tongue as punishment for sounding disappointed. “You could have invited him to stay over; it’s way late, hyung.”

“Yeah.” Jonghyun smirks, “And I’m sure he would bunk with you, considering how cozy you two looked.”

Minho feels the blood rise to his cheeks.

“Gross, man.”

But with the way Jonghyun cackles, Minho knows he won’t hear the end of this for at least a week.

  
  
  
  
  


Mornings are always shitty, but this one really sucked.

By the time Minho shows up with a latte in hand, added dash of nutmeg or whatever the fuck, Jinki has the speech ready – had, in fact, spent the last six hours rehearsing it in his head, how impromptu pizza dates don’t mean a thing when you have to roll your sleeves up at the crack of dawn, typical five minutes for a shower and half a Hostess shortcake shoved in your mouth, chewing on your way to work driving down I-40.

The guy flashes him a smile – a friendly gesture, perfectly natural after spending several hours feeding stranded puppies through a fortunate crack in the door together – as he sets the cup carefully by his elbow, and Jinki’s stomach flips.

“You’re late,” he says quietly, cold and quick – even if two minutes is usually within the forgiveness buffer by anyone else’s standards.

But it was of utmost importance there is no indication that yesterday night changed anything.

He can see that Minho is momentarily confused, hit with this unexpected criticism before his incredible eyes shutter once more, face strained with professionalism. “I’m sorry,” he says, and takes the stack of papers on Jinki’s left, leaves for deliveries without having to be told.

Which is always what happens; the moment he feels that slight ebb of _something_ , a nameless potential for harm, his instinctive reaction is to shut it down. The cold compress, the hot pack, whatever works to get that tightening in his chest to loosen and not become such an aching presence – so he can ignore it, move and breathe normally. Get back to running the fucking country.

Minho was just one out of a million, he thinks, opening up his inbox. On a daily basis he communicates with dignitaries and diplomats, senators and heads of states, at big dinners or behind the door. Even if he had seen a glimpse of something last night that could be, shit, really fucking special – right now there were other things on the priority list. And his personal assistant was not meant to be part of the strategy.

“You’ve seen Minho?” Kibum’s voice over his shoulder, and Jinki instantly feels the start of a tension headache. “I need a driver to pick up some posters for me on the other side of town.”

“Run fast,” Jinki tells him without turning around. “I think he’s on his way out.”

Your fault, some deep layer of conscience relays. He chooses to ignore it.

  
  
  
  
  


In Kibum’s opinion, Jinki was practically asking for it. Not that he couldn’t feel a touch of sympathy for the guy, having switched gears so quickly in the course of two months – and the intellectual posturing wasn’t any different, but it was a different crowd. Before, Jinki was this an ebullience of words whom everyone grudgingly tolerated because as unconventional as his methods were, the outcomes of his work were effective. It was manipulation at its finest, and no one could do it better than Jinki.

But this was something else altogether. Now there was clashing passions and the charged ideals of the inexperienced. There was plenty of pent-up energy, but the campaign headquarters still didn’t operate within a cohesive system, didn’t flow as smoothly as Kibum would have liked. Usually it took a little time for the chemical brew to get stewing, but Jinki wasn’t helping things along with how he had singled out an individual in such a blatant way that it isolated not only him as a supervisor, but his victim as a matter of uncertainty; as with all social situations, if one person is an outcast, is anyone associated going to be subjected to the same?

That is, besides the reputable roommate. And even between them, the loyalty could only stretch so far; in an office setting, everyone was impressively professional, but Minho most of all, considering.

Kibum only had so much sympathy to go around; this time, it was designated to the unlucky Choi Minho. For whatever reason, whatever factor had made him stand out in Jinki’s eyes so that the guy was, instead of exercising his full potential, learning how to tuck coffee cups in the crook of his elbows, or running books and papers between buildings, he was inspired to intervene.

And honestly, those looks were going to waste.

“Minho,” he hails him outside headquarters, his legs having to do some quick catching up to match the other man’s long strides. “Hey, how you doing?”

“Uh—” A stutter at the unexpected question, before he flashes the brightest future politician’s smile Kibum has ever seen. “Cold.”

Kibum blinks. “It’s in the fifties, barely into fall!”

Minho nods politely. “Yeah, but I’m from Florida.”

“Right,” Kibum says, arching an eyebrow. “Well, if you need something to warm you up, I have about two dozen solicitations that needed to be drafted by this afternoon in order to be sent out to the upper crust academia. You have some time to spare from—” If possible, his eyebrow jumps even higher, “your forages in breakfast foods?”

To his credit, the Choi boy doesn’t even bat an eye. “I should ask Jinki first,” he hedges, even though Kibum could’ve sworn his jaw had twitched at the word ‘drafted.’ “I’ve got some deliveries, and he probably has some other stuff lined up...”

“Cleared and all taken care of,” Kibum overlaps quickly. “You’re mine today. Besides, sharing is caring, and if there’s one thing Jinki cares about, it’s that he doesn’t piss me off. I need your help, Minho, and your boss can spare you for an afternoon or so. You in or what?”

As expected, it totally works. “I’m in,” Minho tells him, tugging the strap of his bookbag further up his shoulder, making his sweater ride up. His shirt is neatly tucked underneath, stretched over a taut stomach.

Bingo, Kibum thinks.

  
  
  
  
  


\---

To: jinki@whitehouse.gov

From: seungmin@stanford.edu

Subject: RSVP

  
  


Are you kidding?!

# seats: 40 if we can meet the kid

\---

  
  


To: jinki@whitehouse.gov

From: kyungsoo42@columbia.edu

Subject: RSVP

  
  


Interesting pitch, but we’re sold. I always knew you had brains, but looks like you now have the brawn too. Good call. Put us down for forty-five.

KS

  
  


\---

To: jinki@whitehouse.gov

From: kim.saerom@yale.edu

Subject: RSVP

  
  


The new tactic works, good job. We will need a table that can seat thirty. $250 a plate is a little steep, but I guess times are tough for everybody. Homecoming game in five weeks, it would be nice if you could speak at the brunch, despite your recent title revamp.

Saerom

\---

  
  


“What the fuck?” says Jinki to his computer screen.

  
  
  
  
  


“Are you done yet,” asks Kibum after Jinki pauses to take a breath.

“Fuck no,” he says, “like I could ever be done with you overstepping—”

“Look, Jinki,” Kibum cuts in. “First of all, shut _up_. Overstepping? You’re not the CD anymore, and this isn’t a hegemony. So what the fuck is overstepping on a goddamn team? Campaign managers don’t get personal assistants, but I’ve been letting this Choi Minho stuff go because I get it, the past two months haven’t been that great for you. But now it’s time to get on the boat, help us keep it afloat – and remember, if it sinks? We’re _all_ out of a job.”

Jinki grits his teeth. “No one’s losing their job, Key.”

“Prove it,” says Kibum. “You know that’s the first thing I wanted to do to him? Just fire his fine ass already, because he was obviously such a distraction – but then I thought that that would be such a waste, of _his_ time for relocating and deferring his education awards, of _my_ time for interviewing him but not getting any chances to utilize his skills because you’ve kept him all to yourself—” His co-manager steps closer, narrowing his eyes. “Which is just such bullshit, to be honest. I mean, I’ve seen you dish out a few things in your day, but this is like a whole new level of unjustified obsession.”

“Fine,” says Jinki, “I’ll admit it, he caught my eye and became a casualty. I’m just—” He’s not sure how to word it so Kibum won’t question it further – but if he were to be honest with himself, the reason why was getting clearer all the time. “I’m just stressed out.”

“I know, but you need to stop torturing the guy. You know what he did, right? I asked him to draft a few solicitations for the academic crowd, but he set up this vlog-style plea tying sponsorship money with the exact expenditures for the election. He gave _reasons_ , and they were good ones. That might not be what we’ll end up using the money for, but it’s a plan, and people like that. Plus – and this is a big plus, which is why it’s so fucking typical for you to ignore it – he’s easy on the eyes. This shit adds up, Jinki. You have solid gold to work with, and I know you’re good at this. So stop dropping anchor and help me steer, would you?”

Jinki clears his throat. “Only if you stop with the ship metaphors.”

“Why?” Kibum shoots back. “You suck at swimming.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Yeah, it’s like being stuck listening to the Thumbsucker soundtrack,” Minho says feelingly, and Jonghyun bursts out laughing, then abruptly stops when a shadow falls across both their forms.

“Minho,” says Jinki his name, his expression unreadable, and Minho gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Natural enough as it was that this guy always made him explicitly nervous, no matter how he tried to convince himself that it was mostly due to the superiority and daily self-torture, maybe it also had to do with the angle in which he bent his head, exposing that first knot of his spine, a thin construct that, with just the slightest tap, could make everything fall apart. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

But life goes on; Minho pastes a smile on his face, a cover that’s proved to be reliable so far. “Sure thing, boss.”

Out of instinct, Minho heads towards the kitchenette – he had put a cornbread bagel in the toaster oven about five minutes ago – to grab a mug for Jinki on the way. Or, that was his intention, except then he’s halted by a hand on his elbow.

Thumb pressed against his funny bone too, ouch.

“Um,” he says eloquently. “I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing,” Jinki snaps, and Minho has to actively clench his teeth to keep his jaw from dropping. Granted, it’s been pretty obvious Jinki hasn’t been having the most stellar of weeks, but the constant whiplash was starting to get to be a bit much. He understood, Jinki had made it crystal clear — late night invites for delivery pizza and puppy food accommodations did not equate to changing the status quo in the office. In a way, though it was certainly strange, Minho understood; the office operated within a certain hierarchy, and Jinki had done this before. In a way, Minho had already conceded to trusting him, even if he still wanted to quit half the time.

The other half, even if it was him hanging onto the proverbial ledge by his fingertips, had been revealed a few nights ago. Even if it was his own dirty little secret.

Even if the way Jinki still treated him, Minho totally felt like an all-American reject.

Jinki takes a deep breath, and Minho steels himself for the worst. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

He can feel the muscles around his eyes instantly go tense, narrowing in shock. “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m sorry,” says Jinki, his face open and so goddamn appealing, shit. Not for the first time, Minho thinks it’s a perfect face for smiles; and unbeknownst to himself, at this point he’d feel no greater satisfaction than to be the cause of such an expression. “I’ve been — that is, I. I heard what you did with the invitations.”

Wait, what? “The invitations?” Jinki raises his eyebrows, and Minho stares back helplessly, when suddenly it clicks. “Oh, the – right. The invitations.”

“You got Yale on board. I’m...” Jinki gives this self-detrimental laugh, which is just so far away from the steely, smooth surface of upper hand commands that he’s used to, that Minho doesn’t know what to do. “I’ve been working on Saerom for two months now. It’s always a dance, but I haven’t done it in a while. I thought she was the type to overlook a pretty face, but— not to say,” Jinki adds, “that that’s what got her attention. The ‘day in the life of a volunteer’ thing was pretty cute, even though it was like a _huge_ breach of security—”

“Oh shit,” says Minho, but Jinki shakes his head.

“They know the deal, and even if it circulates, it’s not like you filmed anything too sensitive.”

“With all due respect,” says Minho, “I don’t have access to much.”

“The point,” Jinki continues, but not before sliding him the briefest of glances, “is that they probably saw it as a joke. Clips of you running errands and getting the coffee, ordering the catering – the fuel that feeds the fire. And funds needed for the fuel. Making lemonade out of lemons.” Then Jinki looks him square in the eye. “Me being the lemons.”

Minho doesn’t know what to say, because it’s not like it’s not true. “Well, hyung,” he tries, and Jinki shakes his head.

“It’s okay, Choi. I’ve been treating you like—”

“Lemons,” Minho interrupts, “are useful for a lot of things.”

Jinki coughs, probably to hide a rapidly darkening blush. It is so fucking cute. “Like in sangria.”

Minho grins. “I was going to say as a natural disinfectant, but yeah, that too—”

“Okay, break it up,” Kibum sweeps in, flipping down the door of the oven and snatching the bagel. “If you’re done apologizing,” he looks pointedly to Jinki, “I actually need to use him for something that will put those big, beautiful eyes to good use.”

Minho cracks up, but strangely enough, Jinki doesn’t join him. “Are you going to have him star in more movies?” he asks Kibum quietly, a lack of expression on his face.

“Wrong again, Lee,” Kibum says, and grasps Minho by the aforeinjured elbow. “He’s going to make them.”

  
  
  
  
  


So Minho ends up closing the door on homemade rye and hollandaise, except now it’s traded for greasy bags of McDonald’s steak breakfast burritos, tater tots from Burger King to switch it up every now and then. Food had always been important, but it never became as important as when he actually has the privilege to observe the thick blanket of ever growing trash on Lucinda’s backseat, the clutter and empty coffee cups following Jinki into his apartment, and as much as Minho tried to maintain a distance simply on account of, until recently anyway, Jinki’s unspoken proclamation of him as the resident whipping boy, it was futile to resist picking up a few more boxes of trash bags and stocking them in places where he hoped the other man would take notice, unless he really was trying to build a fort made out of empty pizza boxes.

Then again, he has other reasons to put up with it now.

If the apartment is messy, it’s nothing like Jinki’s thinking process. It was an odd shock, because during all this time of the other man having the upper hand, it was still a unique thing that had transpired between the two of them, and something Jinki had solely taken responsibility for, despite the risk – almost breached – of Minho resenting him for it. Now the rapid montage of meetings, meals, meetings, meetings, was slowly bleeding into Minho’s own life, and with that came a realization that while his attitude had changed, Jinki inadvertently treating him as a confidante did not. At the same time, also realizing that Jinki wasn’t a self-centered prick, just a super cunning asshole, made Minho think that maybe he actually got off easy.

Running errands back and forth within the capital city had been nothing compared to what Jinki had to say about some of the people who ran this town. Then again, maybe that’s just part of the bargain with geniuses: They’re always bad-tempered.

“This fucking piece of shit,” Jinki mutters, hunched over his coffee table, the two square feet of space or so cleared only because Minho had beat him to it five minutes earlier, doing a clean sweep of the surface before Jinki upended his bookbag and laptop on it once more. Minho, eyes falling unhappily on a cramped stack of cheap Bic lighters – Jinki, in a rare show of remorse, swore off the caffeine stream, but in turn had begun smoking again – feels his fingers twitch, and in an effort to distract himself, settles down on the couch next to him.

“Are you talking about this,” he jabs his finger at the paper in Jinki’s hand, “or that guy,” nodding towards the muted television, the exaggerated hand gyrations of a state representative he knew Jinki disliked.

“Two birds with one stone,” Jinki replies, semi-cryptic in his everlasting insistence to reply to things indirectly – to make you think, he would claim, but sometimes Minho just wants to slip two Rozerem into his chai tea and see him sleep for more than four hours straight. Not that he’s actually seen Jinki sleep, like ever. “But this one definitely needs a rewrite.” He eyes Minho thoughtfully, who swallows hard, a remnant reaction to what had been, two weeks ago, simple routine. “Want to give it a shot?”

“Sure,” Minho shrugs, and slips his fingers between the cushions until he finds the pen he had seen fall out of Jinki’s back pocket earlier. “Let me see.”

They work in silence for a couple of minutes before Minho actually realizes what’s going on. “Wait a minute. This is a draft of the weekly address.”

“Yep,” replies Jinki, chewing on his pen cap.

“You’re still writing for the president even though you’re no longer the comm director?”

“I’m still writing for the president,” Jinki says, “because I work for the president. You do too, remember?”

“Right...I just thought—” Minho sits back, lets out a short laugh. “Sometimes I forget most of this stuff is superficial, let’s give them a good show stuff. It’s almost like a movie production. And that ends up warping your ability to connect with the average American.”

“...what do you mean.”

“I mean, your perspective changes once you start operating out of DC. You probably came here macheting your way through a thicket of cynicism, but now you’re bound to all this insider knowledge. No matter what, that changes things. It changes how you treat people, it changes how you influence and write policy. You’re at the top of the totem pole, you have all these resources at your disposal, and you get to see all the diverse demographics of this country reduced to statistics and infographics. Sure, other things control policy too, but the majority is still supposed to rule. Except being a leader means you’re no longer part of the majority. And that’s the catch-22.”

“I think,” Minho continues, “it’s why Kibum wants me to continue with the vlog stuff. Creating a window where people can see the madness behind the magic – or whatever mess we’ve just created – isn’t just more relatable, but also more palatable. Ultimately we’re trying to make a difference too, right? Just like everyone else who has a job. And people like taking pride in their work – except you, apparently.”

“That’s not true,” Jinki argues. “Or at least, it shouldn’t be. Why would you want someone _just like you_ leading the country? I don’t want someone like me governing on a scale that affects lives and livelihoods. It should be someone who’s better—”

“But what does that mean? Better on paper? There are a thousand ways to look better on paper, and there’s no set of credentials that automatically lead to effective leadership. Oscar Olivera didn’t become a leader because he earned a degree from Yale. And I don’t care how liberal you are, or how much you believe in big government — no one likes being told what to do. That’s the perspective you lose, because you guys are the one doing the telling. It’s so easy to forget that.”

Jinki is silent, and for a few seconds, Minho thinks that maybe he should’ve shut up around the time he picked that pen out between the couch cushions. 

“You didn’t mind,” he says at last, and Minho blinks.

“What?”

“Being told what to do, since you allowed me to—”

“Yeah, but I didn’t like you—” Minho cuts off abruptly – _shit_. “I mean,” he starts up again, more careful this time, “I didn’t like it.”

“... Right,” says Jinki. The strain in his voice means that for all the progress they’ve achieved in the last two weeks, Minho’s big mouth just set it back six weeks previous.

Minho sighs quietly, reaching in silence for the draft once more; at least they weren’t counting in months.

  
  
  
  
  


“Maybe you can try taking him out to dinner,” says Kibum, and Jinki remembers to fix a scowl on his face before he turns around.

“I don’t need any more of your advice,” he hisses. “If you need him for something, just go ahead and take him. You don’t need to ask me every time.”

“Again with the personal ownership thing,” Kibum murmurs. “Remember how you’re not supposed to have a PA? But as luck would have it, he told me he actually _likes_ working for you. Likes. As in, present tense – which, I heard, you might want to brush up on. Either way, since I’m one to actually take into consideration the desires of my employees, I acquiesced to his request. Even if it might be Stockholm Syndrome. What I really wanted to talk to you about is if you can actually use him with writing your speeches, or if I should place him with the media operations guys. And don’t lie to me, Jinki.”

“He—” Jinki has to backtrack, since more often than not when talking with Kibum you’re not certain if he’s asking something from you or if it’s the other way around. “He said he doesn’t mind working with me?”

“Like I said, other than brushing up on your tenses, I’d say that’s an affirmative.”

“Then I guess,” Jinki glances across the room, the brunette head of Choi Minho poking conspicuously above the cubicles, “I can find some stuff for him to do.”

“Of course you can,” says Kibum. “Making it official in three, two, one – and done. Now take him to dinner.”

Jinki waits until Kibum leaves before he keys in his Domino’s app; close enough, he guesses.

Before placing the order, he takes care to add pineapple over half.

  
  
  
  
  


Slowly they reach a symbiosis of overlapping interests; sometimes Jinki thinks it’s hypocritical of Kibum to find no problem with their current working relationship than the one that Jinki had implemented less than two months ago, because nothing had really changed. Sure, the food was less gourmet, but Minho still spent every waking hour at Jinki’s elbow, absorbing the nuances of negotiation and manipulation, on paper or in person. Occasionally he had a camera in his hand, footage of the idiosyncratic experience swiftly edited into clever clips that showed good humor of daily predicaments as well as the results they produced. The circulation had been officially cut off at the campaign level, but it still helped boost morale, in addition to becoming a subject of intrigue. More than once, Jinki unknowingly found himself starring in these homemade demonstrations of unending stress and the triumphs that made it all worth it – better than any drama on television.

Minho, Jinki had found, was really fucking clever.

“Give me that,” the other man says, and Jinki automatically hands him his crust. Minho stuffs it into his mouth, a little bit still hanging out as he mutters his thoughts on the latest draft of the Veteran’s Day address. His hair is getting long, covering up those incredibly expressive eyebrows while simultaneously drawing emphasis to his gigantic eyes. Sometimes Jinki is reminded of killer whales, the saddlepatch spot a visual trickery to intimidate.

He couldn’t, in all honesty, say that he had avoided being a victim.

Minho bends back the thick stack of stapled paper, ruffling through another pile in front of him for a colored pen for markups. It takes him at least thirty seconds – not that Jinki is watching and counting, they really needed to make a run to Office Depot for some filing stands – before he finds one, lime green, pops the cap off with his thumb and begins to write all over the page, straight lines of notes in his rounded, neat handwriting.

Jinki stares. “It’s really that bad?” Almost nearly always implying that he’s done this before.

“It’s good,” Minho tells him, even as he continues to make notes. “I’m just jotting down visual cues. If all we’re doing is putting on a show, it might as well look good, right?”

“Why, because you’ve had the experience?” Jinki can’t help but say snidely.

“Nah, hyung, I have natural born talent,” Minho drawls, his eyes crinkling in suppressed laughter. And as it seemed to happen all too often these days, that smile in check seems to catch him at exactly the right time, where something bubbles up from the pit of his stomach, a swelling in his chest that makes it hard to breathe, even though it only lasts for a few seconds.

Maybe it was happiness or something. He couldn’t be too sure, it had been a while.

  
  
  
  
  


This feeling is thoroughly smited the next day, during his date with Jihyo at the White House.

“You’re so romantic, Jinki,” she tells him – banter picked up from Donghoon no doubt; Jinki can hardly remember a time when she didn’t have a cutting edge to her words, a lack of ruthlessness that he could never quite implement himself.

He gives her a sarcastic smile. “I try.”

Minho wasn’t there; Jinki had assigned him to some last-minute editing on a couple of memos to the upcoming site visits – a manufacturing plant here, a local business there – before he joined them; but to his dismay, Jinki felt oddly unprepared, even though he’s sat through these meetings by himself hundreds of times. Recently, with Minho a silent but supporting presence behind him as he presented on campaign strategy updates, it was now something he depended on. Going head to head with Jihyo while also having these thoughts float around in the back of his mind was nowadays less than relished.

“By the way, I watched Choi Minho’s latest promotional spot,” says Jihyo, and Jinki freezes at the other man’s name. “He’s got a good eye for pathos and visual appeal. It’s like you and him compliment with words and images – which is a good strategy, Jinki. I’m truly impressed.”

“Thanks,” he replies stiffly. But she’s not done yet.

“I was wondering,” she taps a perfect nail against her chin, “if I could borrow him at some point after the voter demographics assessment? He could get some good project management experience if he worked directly under me, act as a liaison between our two offices. This way, he’ll get exposure to some people who could become some useful partners and resources to him in the future, especially if he wanted to pursue a career in politics after the election and have a chance to share his ideas and spread some influence. That’s our job too, after all – giving opportunities for these kids to learn something.”

“I don’t—” Jinki has to take a deep breath in order not to set into full panic mode – jesus, when did he get like this? “I don’t think that that’s necessary. I was planning to bring him up to the house later this week, set up a temporary office for him – maybe Seohyun can take him under her wing. Also,” he says defensively, “he’s doing a tremendous job at headquarters with media relations, and we really can’t afford to give away our best people with the Kamachi crisis and those dipping poll numbers.”

Jihyo blinks at him contemplatively, and Jinki struggles to maintain an impassive face.

“Okay,” is all she says when she speaks again, though the glance she slides down at the stack of papers in front – all marked with lime green ink – gives Jinki the uneasy feeling that this, whatever it was, was not over yet.

  
  
  
  
  


Two o’clock coma sets in right around the time that pesto sandwich decides it’s not going to take digestion lying down; the one day of the week they get catering, and he’s paying for it big time. Jinki’s about to drag himself out of his chair and hunt for that bottle of Tums from probably the last election cycle hidden in one of the cabinets of the kitchenette when there’s a soft scurrying of paws against the plastic mat of his office, before glossy, dark eyes and a pink tongue are all Jinki needs to distract him from anything and everything important, ever.

“Marjory,” he hears Minho’s voice, but it’s too late, Jinki’s already scooped her up into his arms, twists his chair quickly around on the off chance he didn’t see her come in.

“He doesn’t have to know, hm?” he murmurs, scratching behind her ears, then hisses when a shadow falls across his desk.

“No way,” says Minho, hands already spread out in a pre-reach, the jerk. Marjory scrambles eagerly up from Jinki’s lap, balancing awkwardly on his thighs as she turns towards the sound of his voice, no loyalty whatsoever. “She’s got a doctor’s appointment today, then she’s going home, where she, you know. _Belongs._ ”

“You shouldn’t tell her what to do,” Jinki says snidely, and pushes his chair back so she’s out of reach once more.

“She’s _my_ dog!”

“She has a bed at my place!”

“Your lap as you sit on the couch isn’t considered a sleeping location, hyung.”

“Fine,” he amends. “She has a bowl too.”

“Okay,” Kibum says from the doorway, then in one fell swoop takes Marjory from his arms, curling her protectively against his chest. “Until they figure this out, you’ll be visiting me in my office, right Jory?” He rubs at her belly, and her tail wags happily. “And you two should know better than to fight in front of the kids,” he scolds them, jerking his head towards the rest of the office. “Remember that whole, acting like an adult thing you were trying out?”

“Speaking of,” says Jinki, rubbing his forehead as Kibum walks away making cooing sounds against Jory’s face, “After the gala, I think we need to set up an office for you so you can work on your productions that are more aligned to current events. We can formulate a way where the response of the campaign is a direct solution to daily crises and events, and have people see it as a line of reassurance that connects their problems with the guy in the White House, you know?”

Minho blinks; well this was unexpected. “Oh uh, that sounds great. Should I start clearing some space in that unused meeting room?”

“What?” Jinki is distracted, looking around the office for those Tums – if he was really getting sick, it’d be the worst timing ever, especially since they had the drive up to NYC tomorrow. “No, your office won’t be here.”

Disappointment welling up, Minho suddenly feels the back of his throat go dry. “Then where are you thinking of?”

His boss spots the bottle, twisting open the cap and depositing two pills into his hand before popping them into his mouth, swallowing them dry. “Your new office will be next to my old office,” he tells him. It takes a second, and then Minho’s eyes widen indefinitely.


	3. Chapter 3

One would think that with a face chiseled by the ancient artisans of Rome, Minho would have the illustrious attire to match; however, days before the New York gala, Jinki discovers that the man has never owned a single tuxedo in his life. It stuns him how they managed to overlook this detail, considering they led a team of twenty to organize the event: sending invitations to the filthy rich, including celebrities, politicians, and corporate bigwigs; printing off and perfecting 1000 programmes; writing the presidential speech; renting the grand ballroom within the Waldorf-Astoria; and even choosing a menu from the prized catering service. Therefore, it did not take an idiot to understand that if one was to be in attendance, they better look the part.  
  
 _Working for the Peace Corps and building orphanages, you never needed one_ , is the excuse he receives, which Jinki would be all but willing to protest, if he did not have to think of all those thankful tiny kids in their tiny houses built by the six-foot giant. Maybe it was a sign that he was getting soft, but Jinki does not argue while Minho gives him that pensive troubled stare. What Jinki does do, is dial Kibum’s number.   
  
“Yes, yes I know.” Jinki sighs into the receiver of his cell, appalled screeches on the other end of the line. “But we still need to find a tailor who can do this in two days. Minho can’t just walk into a store and pick something up. You know that. He’s always either too skinny or too tall.”   
  
Jinki gives a quick reproachful glance to the young man, who winces pathetically while pacing about. That’s what Minho deserved, for having a body that no normal human being could possibly achieve.   
  
“You owe me.”   
  
It’s the three words that Jinki dreads hearing from Kibum, but he really has no choice in the matter, nodding vigorously as he haphazardly pens an address in blue ink on the space between his thumb and index finger.   
  
“I’ll make it up to you.”   
  
“Yes, you will.”   
  
The pointed response and Jinki hangs up, interpreting just where this address is and realizing only then, how much of a wallet cruncher it will be. Times Square, likely some private boutique that only the truly rich or Kim Kibum could afford.   
  
“Did you find a place?” Minho asks, breaking the silence.   
  
“That depends. Did you say your prayers?”

 

 

  
By the time they find the place, tucked behind a back alley with a fenced walkway, Minho is instantly swept up by a young seamstress. The blond woman holds nothing back, ordering Minho to strip and leaving Jinki barely any time to observe the quaint shop of cream walls, mannequins, fabric yards, and threaded spools. In the rush, strip Minho does, peeling back his shirt while standing upon a podium. Jinki is consequently subjected to a view of rippling muscles and sun-kissed skin, nearly feeling offended, seeing how easily Minho obeys.   
  
Nevertheless, Jinki bites his tongue as he watches the woman work with a swift hand, her eyes frighteningly determined. The measuring tape snaps as its length unravels, wrapping across Minho’s figure: shoulders, waist, hips, crotch, and any other necessary appendage. If anything, Minho appears startled by the whole process, thin fingers touching him left and right, and for that, Jinki has pity.   
  
“Have you considered being a model?” The woman finally speaks, voice of a surprising husky quality, in contrast to her tiny frame.   
  
“Well I helped a classmate in college,” Minho replies simply, still blinking from the aftermath of the onslaught.   
  
It’s enough to make Jinki roll his eyes, having heard this conversation a million times from people startled to cross paths with the unreal being that was Choi Minho. In some ways, Jinki had grown desensitized to the effect, although not always, hiding his current flush as the man turned to look at him.   
  
“Hyung, is it always like this?”   
  
Jinki opens his mouth to reply but is cutoff as the young seamstress sweeps in again with her opinion.   
  
“You aren’t done yet baby. I still need to measure your wrists.”   
  
Oddly enough, Minho responds with a laugh, doing that thing that Jinki does not understand, having the ability to adjust to any personality within five minutes. In contrast, Jinki does not overcome his initial shock and is uneasy with the forward woman; although, in hindsight, he should have expected this kind of exaggerated persona from one of Kibum’s contacts.   
  
“Lose the bracelet and hold still.”   
  
The next flurry of orders and Jinki watches as Minho unhooks the metal chain. It is not something Jinki has paid particular attention to, yet when he thinks about it, he cannot recall the man ever being without the bracelet, even asleep. That observation is why Jinki is unprepared when the young woman makes an awed exclamation as she wraps the tape measure around each wrist.   
  
“That’s gorgeous.”   
  
Jinki has no idea what she is talking about, unless wrist bones could be considered gorgeous, which in Minho’s case, could very well be a possibility.   
  
“Thank you.”   
  
He leans over to see.   
  
“You can put your clothes back on. I’ll be back with some fabric swatches in a second.”   
  
And although Jinki should be as courteous as Minho, thanking the spirited woman as she leaves the room, he is instead struck dumb, staring at Minho’s right wrist. The thin twisted design, as if there was a coil of healed scar tissue traversing across the circumference; it makes Jinki’s stomach curl but also marvel at its intricacies, something that had managed to go unnoticed in the time they’ve spent together. He suddenly panics about his insensitivity.   
  
“Did you,” Jinki stutters, a lump in his throat, “Do you cut?”   
  
Minho’s head is halfway peeking through the top of his shirt, eyes wide. He slips the garment on quickly.   
  
“What?” The baffled exclamation. “Why would I do that?”   
  
“But your wrist.”   
  
Minho stares at him blankly before raising his arm.   
  
“This? You never noticed it before?”   
  
“Was I supposed to?”   
  
It’s a weak comeback, especially considering how Jinki had practically been living with the guy for the past three months.   
  
“Well I just thought—” Minho pauses thoughtfully, stepping off the podium with ease. “Some of the guys at work commented on it, so I thought you knew.”   
  
Arrow in the chest, and really, Jinki shouldn’t be so dramatic but it bothers him, not being the first to know... about whatever it is.   
  
It approaching closer that is, Jinki finding himself alongside Minho and pulling the marked wrist towards him. He does not hesitate as his hands trace the intersecting white lines, shocked that they are not raised beneath his fingertips. They aren’t scars and his worry starts to fade, Jinki choosing to childishly pinch the skin as petty revenge.   
  
“What is it?”   
  
Minho gives him a half-hearted frown, smiling crescents for eyes betraying his attempt at anger. Thus, while rubbing his wounded wrist, Minho elbows Jinki gently.   
  
“It’s a white tattoo.”   
  
Jinki shudders at the thought, watching Minho slip the ubiquitous bracelet over the barely noticeable pale branding. Honestly, it was beyond Jinki why anyone would get a tattoo, envisioning the sharp sting and blood running from the injected pigment, even if the result was fascinating. Not to mention, he did not imagine Minho to be the tattoo kind of person, upholding a pristine image after showing a quiet disapproval of Jinki’s smoking.   
  
“Why’d you get it?” Minho’s wrist is back in Jinki’s hand, Jinki beginning to notice the remarkable similarity of the tattoo and Minho’s bracelet. They are not identical, but the outline of the white ink suggests an almost more delicate version of the chain. “Did you actually – is that your bracelet?”   
  
“Bingo.” Minho grins, literally allowing his arm to be man-handled as Jinki cannot seem to decide what angle to make the comparison from. “Peace Corps, a drink too many around the table and well, we got the idea to all get a tattoo of something special to us, and well I figured this would be it.”   
  
Minho shakes his wrist, putting emphasis on his bracelet and leaving Jinki to give him an unimpressed look.   
  
“That is so lame.”   
  
Minho feigns offense, swiping his arm from Jinki’s hands. “But it suits me!”   
  
“Ahem.”   
  
The pair turn to the voice, the young seamstress smiling patiently, waiting with a binder in hand.   
  
“Would you like to browse some colour schemes for your tux?”   
  
That colour scheme is in fact chosen by the young seamstress herself, Hyoyeon as they finally learn her name through a proper introduction. It becomes glaringly obvious that Jinki has no sense for fashion, and although Minho better, neither of them have the ability to choose a good set of complementary hues. In the end, it is decided upon a dark black swatch (100% virgin wool they are told, which means absolutely nothing to them), and a colourful satin Paisley lining, somewhat garish but something Hyoyeon insists would be a striking designer touch.   
  
“And you can finish this in two days?” Jinki finds himself rather skeptical in the undertaking of such a precise tailoring job, watching as the blond seamstress records the details of the orders: measurements, fabrics and other personal details.   
  
“Of course. Just make sure you come the morning of for a quick fitting and everything will be ready.” Hyoyeon taps her rather obnoxious pink feather pen confidently on her clipboard. “Kibum sent you here for a reason remember.”   
  
“Right,” Jinki comments with uncertainty, recalling one important detail. “How much does this cost anyway?”   
  
The young woman pops her lips, whipping out a calculator from her pocket.   
  
“1300 dollars flat.”   
  
“E-excuse me?” Minho pales and Jinki can only relate to the sticker shock, something just shy of an Armani suit. “I don’t have that kind of money.”   
  
“We’ve handled that detail.” Hyoyeon looks unfazed, continuing to mark up some notes on her clipboard.   
  
Jinki however, is wary of this ‘we’ addition, realizing that it could only pertain to the very person he called for the favor.   
  
“How _is_ this bill being handled?”   
  
A near-thousand dollars was not anything that could be given away easily.   
  
Hyoyeon flashes another brilliant smile beneath thick eyelashes, self-assured and confident.   
  
“You.” The feathered end of the pen jabs into Minho’s chest. “For the rest of your blossoming career, you’re mine.” Hyoyeon gives a cheeky laugh.   
  
“You’re going to endorse my boutique by wearing only my suits and tuxes to public events for a minimum of fifteen years.” The pen is handed to Minho and a contract is shoved his way.   
  
“Deal?”   
  
Minho signs the document after briefly scanning it, leaving Jinki gobsmacked.   
  
“Are you insane?” Jinki stares at Minho wide-eyed, then proceeds to turn his head to the young seamstress who is giddy with delight upon looking at her new model’s signature. “And you, isn’t this a huge gamble? Who says this guy has a blossoming career where he can actually advertise your clothes.”   
  
“She seems trustworthy.”   
  
“He’s going to make it far, it’s obvious.”   
  
The simple answers with absolutely no logic backing them up whatsoever. Jinki wants to sit down.   
  
Unfortunately, he does not get the chance, Jinki yelping as a tape measure winds behind his neck and reigns him in.   
  
“By the way,” Hyoyeon breathes over Jinki’s nose, the man close to sniveling. “Kibum told me that you needed a new tux too, and you’re paying full price.”

 

 

  
Jinki’s irritated, which truthfully isn’t that different from any other day, but Minho feels for the guy, having written a cheque for $1400 dollars this very morning for the well tailored tux and complementary silk gold bow tie. The ensemble accompanied by a crisp white shirt looked quite fetching on Jinki, not that the man would ever notice, grumbling profanities under his breath and chewing on a chicken club while Hyoyeon put the finishing touches on Minho’s tux.   
  
“Yah!” Hyoyeon scolds in the meantime, hand sewing a pinned seam. “Jinki, if you get a single drop of chipotle mayo on that tux, I will skin you alive.”   
  
“Worry about your promotional wonder boy first.”   
  
The jeer stings but Minho inhales a steady breath, having dealt with far worse before. “Hyung, just use some napkins okay?”   
  
Jinki mutters something else but complies, being a bit more careful with the paper wrapping and avoiding flying crumbs.   
  
“He’s had a long day.” Minho is not sure why he’s trying to excuse Jinki, the guy being an unreasonable asshole, but some sympathetic string tugs at his chest.   
  
“Well I’ve had a long night.” Hyoyeon disregards Jinki with a snuff, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’m going to make you two look perfect even if it’s you who shocks him to reality.”   
  
Minho stills, eyes fluttering open and closed. Something wasn’t right about what she just said.   
  
“What—”   
  
“You’re done!” Hyoyeon pats him just beneath his collarbone, faded beige bow tie perfectly symmetrical and in place.   
  
“Got anything to say Jinki?” Hyoyeon flashes the man a challenging stare, Jinki raising his head with a slice of chicken between his lips.   
  
It drops.   
  
Jinki however, has always been the type for these kind of theatrics; so when Hyoyeon lets out a squeak of a shout, Jinki has already recovered, doubling back and avoiding the piece of greasy poultry as it hits the floor. Minho unfortunately, has to bear the brunt of Hyoyeon’s surprise, cringing as fake nails dig into his arms. The seamstress had not been around Jinki enough to know how many bullets the man dodged daily.   
  
“I guess skinning you alive wasn’t enough of a threat!” Minho watches with an amused eye as Hyoyeon stalks towards Jinki, prodding him in the chest. “Now you better make your last words short and sweet, because you’re going to get it.”   
  
“Minho looks nice.”   
  
Excuse me?   
  
A barely audible mumble and Minho peers at the man, Jinki’s lips pursed. He is not sure if he should question it, but Hyoyeon is already ahead of him.   
  
“What did you say?”   
  
“Your designs look nice.” The quick defensive response.   
  
“That’s not what you said.” Hyoyeon’s smile betrays her scornful tone. “Say what you said before.”   
  
“I did!”   
  
“You liar!”   
  
It’s a hopeless cause, Hyoyeon making a show of distress as she interrogates Jinki to speak up; the man would never _ever_ forfeit once he made up his mind to keep quiet. Yet, despite that well known fact, Minho reaches in his back pocket and thumbs the record function of his cellphone, a silent but impossible wish to capture the memory.

 

 

  
It is only inevitable that once they hail a taxi and head off to the fall fundraising gala, Jinki is more resigned than ever. They arrive early, to avoid the media before more prominent guests arrive, but Minho can still spot the disdain in Jinki’s eyes, stepping into the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, halls laid with luscious red carpets, glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Venturing into the foyer is no better, Jinki not hiding his glares at the social elite already present, clinking champagne glasses and dining upon delicately assembled hors d’oeuvres.   
  
Needless to say, this extravagant venue of gold ceilings and velvet lounge chairs, is not the environment Jinki best thrives in. Minho hopes some food can change the man’s mind or at least make him more amiable, because if there was anything he could be certain about when it came to Jinki, it was his stomach.   
  
Minho holds up a hand, beckoning a server over at the sight of deviled eggs, something Jinki had always enjoyed whenever the campaign team was lucky enough to hit a night at a fancy all-you-can-eat buffet. Except, these eggs are more than fancy, even causing Minho pause while viewing the supposed comfort item adorned with caviar eggs and shaved truffles, neatly laid in a bed of leafy sprouts. Five dollars a bite, Minho suspects, wincing inside as he takes two spoons and gives the server an appreciatory nod.   
  
“Hey hyung.” Minho approaches Jinki, glued to the wall with a glass of ice water, a surprisingly sober choice. “Have one,” Minho jokes, “It’ll make the time pass faster.”   
  
“I’m not hungry.” Unreadable and vacant. “You have it.”   
  
Practically a kick in the crotch, Minho fighting against the spark of frustration at the cold remarks. But Minho takes it in stride, eating one of the hor d’oeurves and leaving the second one on a nearby counter, if Jinki decides to eat it. He has to remind himself, he’s dealt with worse.   
  
“Hey—”   
  
Minho’s cutoff, a sudden silence reaching across the room, halting the sounds of light-hearted chatter. Even Jinki is broken from his slump, eyes turning towards the commotion that demands quiet whispers of awe and admiration. One would think that such a reception would imply arrival of the President himself, but the reality is quite different, Minho blinking as the sight dazzles his eyes.   
  
Sweeping in gracefully, the confident goddess enters, adorned in a shockingly red Givenchy gown, backless and supported by an intricate arrangement of lace and beadwork running across slender shoulders. The red georgette cascades across her body, as she seemingly floats into the lobby, hair pinned high with an exaggerated floral barrette. If one did not pay attention, they most certainly would have not noticed the suited man at her side, arms weaved together loosely. He’s a little short, pudgy almost, with a thinned moustache and line of stubble down his chin, a tricky looking sort of fellow. Minho thinks privately, a small smile at his lips, they are a charming pair, balanced.   
  
Yet his inquiry begins, Minho finding himself drawn to the woman, a familiar face even with the unfamiliar atmosphere of royalty. He’s seen her before, memory looking through filing cabinets and shifting images, struggling to recall.   
  
It clicks, tables of scattered documents, photographs and stray records. This woman was a government worker, her presence on occasion found within Jinki’s papers. She is someone Jinki is familiar with.   
  
“Who are they hyung?” The question clumsily raised, only then Minho noticing Jinki’s expression, stony and dark.   
  
“Ha Donghoon, the tramp.” Jinki does not spare a glance towards Minho, eyes steady on the eccentric pair beginning to meld within the crowd of satin jackets, fur vests, and silk gowns. “And the lady herself, Song Jihyo.”   
  
Ice shards against his ears, a venomous tone Minho has never witnessed from the man. And to be fair, people are entitled to their bad days but this wasn’t normal; Jinki was beyond aggravated, more than the time Minho first met him, a time Minho does not want to return to. Minho would rather do something more productive, something he assumed that their relationship would allow, after the constant hardship of working late nights and running to the local 24 hour gas stations for coffee.   
  
“Jinki.” The name is leaden on his tongue, uncertain and a little wary, but Minho pushes through. “If you want to talk about whatever it is, I’m here.”   
  
“Can’t you mind your own business for once?” Blind rage. “Go entertain one of those ogling ladies who are actually interested because I did not ask for your fucking company.”   
  
A splash of water in the face, the sensation of drowning within, stinging and furious.   
  
Minho does not deserve it. They were supposed to be past this.   
  
“You’re right.” His voice does not falter, Minho turning away without a second glance. “And I know the perfect lady to entertain.”

 

 

  
Jinki stands still, a choked breath as he watches the young man depart towards her, Minho boldly parting the clusters of people to acquaint himself with the star, Song Jihyo. Consequently, it is no surprise to see Minho mingle with any audience perfectly, instead of irritating guests by his intrusion, bewitching them with a full laugh and some clever comment that Jinki is unable to discern. Jihyo is naturally captivated, Jinki recognizing that rare full smile of hers, eyes sparkling as she playfully taps Minho’s arm. They’re attractive, gorgeous, a fitting pair that is far beyond him. It hurts to look.   
  
“What’d you do to piss him off?”   
  
Although he did not know it at the time, Jinki is aware now, that this is the voice of the last person he wanted to see: Jonghyun, the labeled playboy roommate, who for clarification, was not actually a playboy, but still annoyed Minho enough for random bursts of midnight complaints. Jinki’s first impression of the worker still remained, remnants of a cocky arrogance that disagreed with him. However, thanks to Minho’s persuasion, Jinki did believe Jonghyun had several redeemable qualities: loyal and fun to a fault. As well, to be just, Jinki knew whatever Jonghyun was good at, he was really good at, such as using that sharp tongue to book sponsors, connect to people of any age group, and encourage mass participation at public events. Basically, Jonghyun was everything Jinki was not.   
  
“He’s not pissed off.” Jinki briefly eyes the newest attraction in the lobby, tall and handsome with strong and beautiful. “At least not anymore. He’s enjoying himself.”   
  
“Is that what you see? Seriously?”   
  
Jonghyun leans comfortably beside Jinki, flashing a smirk to a passing female server as he takes a glass of champagne from her tray.   
  
“What else am I supposed to see.” The feeble protest as Jinki concedes defeat, unwilling to make the effort to send another person away, leaving his new conversation partner in place.   
  
“I don’t know.” Jonghyun raises a brow, face pointed and handsome, if not a little unsettled. “How about the way my dear roomie is clenching his fist so tight, he’s probably breaking the skin on his palm. He’s always had dry skin.”   
  
Jinki ignores the intimate revelation, fighting back the retort that Minho had chapped lips too, because really, what would that accomplish. Instead, Jinki wills himself to look back across the room for this piece of evidence, eyes avoiding pretty smiles and white teeth. Undeniably, the observation holds true, Jinki noting Minho’s hand being balled into a fist. Yet, Jinki sees no significance in this action as it is the other hand that distracts him, resting easy on Jihyo’s shoulder.   
  
Jinki mutters bitterly, “He’s fine.”   
  
“You room with him almost as much as I do and you’re telling me that’s how well you know him?” The blonde looks cross, Jinki suddenly reminded of his envy for defined features, Jonghyun’s amicable grin gone and looking more than a little intimidating. “I want to give Minho the benefit of the doubt, but boss, I wonder what he sees in you.”   
  
The cheeky remark leaves Jinki affronted but speechless, Jonghyun’s unwavering gaze an obvious dare for a rebuttal. And certainly, Jinki would find something to say, a speechwriter for Christ sakes, not unacquainted with witty verse, but his brain freezes to a halt. The thought has never truly dawned on him before; why did Minho bear it all: working closely together despite the occasional disagreement in values, dealing with Jinki’s short fuse, sleeping in a wasteland of an apartment, bringing Marjory from house to house. The whole endeavour was nothing but stress with little reward.   
  
Jinki remains silent.   
  
Jonghyun shakes his head, swirling the glass filled with crystal liquid. One drink and the blonde’s flirtatious smile reappears, young women and perhaps even a man or two finding themselves utterly charmed by dangerously attractive good looks. This was the signal demonstrating that Jonghyun was apparently done with his feeble excuse of a boss, parting for more finessed company. He leaves a parting shot though, Jinki pressing his lips together at the admittedly practical advice.   
  
“Think about these things some time.”

 

 

  
Having acquainted himself with Song Jihyo, Minho comprehends why the woman has such a captivating presence, a beauty endowed with an overwhelming sense of poise. It is a situation where for once, Minho finds himself pulling out all the stops to leave a memorable impression, be it through engaging conversation or charming smiles. Usually, this process is not something that even registers in his mind, but it bothers Minho, that behind his jubilant face, he is struggling for words.   
  
The problem is, Minho is uncertain if the source of his anxiety is Jihyo, an almost discerning gaze flickering about whenever she looks at him, as if she knows something that is just beyond his reach. That or perhaps it is from the man he left behind, a dull and draining sense of guilt resting on the back of his neck. Or maybe, Minho is just thinking too much, psyching himself out and losing focus from an erratic morning.   
  
“Well if you’ll excuse me.” Jihyo looks up at him, a small smile with humoured eyes, that same irking sense that he had just missed something. “I apologize but I must take my leave. I hope to see more of you Minho-ssi.”   
  
“The sentiment returned.” Minho catches himself, giving a proper farewell with a bow of the head, watching her steps retreat, heels clicking against the floor.   
  
“Smooth one aren’t you.”   
  
The comment given not one second later, when Minho can no longer see the train of red fabric. He turns around, facing the voice of devious nature.   
  
“Pardon?” Minho spots the man as he looks down, the one that had been attached to Jihyo’s arm, Ha Donghoon.   
  
“You’ve really grabbed the attention of everyone kid.” Donghoon grins playfully, nudging Minho’s arm. “Even the big names are starting to take interest.”   
  
“Thank you but I haven’t done anything to receive attention.” Minho is not sure how he feels about the tone of this conversation, not the best mind-reader but sensing ulterior motives. There was no reason for Donghoon to approach him, having only heard of his name fifteen minutes earlier. Unless... Minho flushes, embarrassed. There could be a misunderstanding.   
  
Minho raises a hand, humbling himself as it rests on the back of his neck. “I only wished to speak to Jihyo-ssi. I never had any intention of stepping on toes.”   
  
Donghoon halts, giving a wide eyed look before breaking into a humourous laugh, rough but well-intentioned.   
  
“That isn’t a problem kid.” Donghoon seems appeased by Minho’s consideration and in a sense, recognition of his status. “If you think I could get away with leashing a woman like her, you’re sorely mistaken. She goes where she wants; I just happen to be there.”   
  
Oddly touching, Minho finds himself joining in with his own smile.   
  
“But really,” Donghoon continues, patting a friendly hand on Minho’s back, “Are you just being humble or do you really have no idea?”   
  
Minho gives a blank stare at the statement.   
  
“So he’s really kept everything from you eh? Under lock and key I guess.”   
  
And suddenly, Minho feels that uneasy sensation slip back, rolling in his stomach. “What are you talking about?”   
  
Donghoon sends Minho a bewildered look, the complete package with open mouth and dumbfounded eyes, almost exaggerated on the animated face. It takes a second before the man recomposes himself and pokes Minho in the arm. “Yah, Lee Jinki kid, I’m talking about Lee Jinki.”   
  
The name makes Minho stiffen. “What does he have to do with this?”   
  
“Woah you really are serious.” Donghoon takes a glass of scotch from a nearby server, drinking it as if headed into heavy discussion, or maybe something Minho would rather not listen to, eyes wary as the shorter man licks his lips. “He hasn’t told you anything about himself has he?”   
  
The inquiring question, something Minho has thought about numerous times, sitting in Jinki’s apartment and spotting unexplained photographs, documents gathered in large accordion folders, pieces of scattered memorabilia. Jinki however bypasses it all, the history of his messy apartment, the untold past, seemingly sidetracked by the next morning’s goal. Besides that, Minho has never had the courage to ask.   
  
“The topic never comes up.” The explanation sounds pathetic on his lips.   
  
“So he really has been keeping you out of the loop in other words.” Donghoon whistles, smacking his lips. “You have so much potential kid, but if you stay with him, you’re going to sink like a rock.”   
  
“Excuse me?” This is entirely new information, something that Minho cannot grasp, every door opened to him, albeit with a bit of an initial fight. If anything, he was being relocated to the House for fuck’s sake. “That must be false information. Jinki-ssi has provided me with several opportunities with his position—”   
  
“That position isn’t going to hold.”   
  
Minho swallows at the interruption, far from his self-assured self and in a swamp of murky waters instead. He wanted to, he truly wanted to, something firing in his stomach telling him to defend Jinki, but it was always like this, Minho finding himself utterly clueless and without alternatives. The only time Minho would ever have to back down nowadays, it always involved Jinki.   
  
“Jinki climbed up quickly and now he’s going down just as fast.” Donghoon takes another swig of the scotch, genuinely concerned for the young man beside him, Minho closing off with a distant gaze. “Yah, you should listen to this.”   
  
Minho pauses, silent but attentive.   
  
“I’m sure you know about this at the very least,” Donghoon starts, “That Jinki was once Communications Director.”   
  
It’s the topic Minho has always been curious about, the answer now within reach but for some reason, being revealed in a manner than Minho could feel less than innocent about. The exchange, feeling as if it was a transgression that should not be taking place. Minho’s nails dig into his palms.   
  
“That kid did too much. Worked his way up by knocking down the corrupt left and right.” Donghoon tells the tale, all but aware of Minho’s discomfort. “Too bad he became too fucking cynical to keep his head in place, not even a proud whistleblower. His party, makes one bluff about the taxes and he goes on a bloody rampage, accusing the higher ups of catering to the elite. He writes up an article, denouncing the man on top and both sides of senate, for not only the taxes, but complacency with gay rights, budgetary overspending on the military, the entire list. Stupid. The only thing I admit is impressive is how fast he spread that piece of polemic. Guy works fast when he’s not thinking ahead.”   
  
Political heresy. Suicide.   
  
“Get out of his company while you can kid.”   
  
“We should head to the main ballroom. It's about time.”   
  
“What?” Donghoon splutters the remaining alcohol, his concise retelling going without the response he anticipated.   
  
“Hyung has his reasons.”   
  
It is the only acknowledgement Minho gives before walking away.

 

 

  
Why why why _why_ was luck never ever on his side?   
  
Jinki feels grotesque enough as it is, cold prickles on his skin from the guilt, managing to treat the only genuinely good guy left on this side of the States like shit. Then, Jinki has the talent to screw it up even further, receiving a tongue-lashing from the aforementioned’s roommate. Rock bottom isn’t far off and Jinki would rather be alone to salvage what little esteem he has left. Albeit inevitably, that wish of his cannot hold, eyes spotting the flash of vibrant reds cascading his way.   
  
“Jinki.”   
  
He wants to vomit.   
  
“Jihyo noona.”   
  
Somehow he swallows the frustration clogging his esophagus, Jinki greeting the woman with a bow of his head, along with a graceful sweep of her hand. He places a polite peck on the milky surface, surprising himself. Jinki has never been known to be much of a gentleman after entering the political scene, but then again, everyone must make an exception for her, especially if they don’t want the title of first class asshole.   
  
Although, Jinki suspects he’s already quite close to that honour, if not having already earned it, noting that despite Jihyo’s ability to attract, not one person has made a move to approach them. They are entirely alone, in a secluded corner of the foyer, Jinki receiving disdainful looks from randomly dispersed sets of eyes. His past was clearly not forgotten; people here know how to hold a grudge and as expected, they supported Ms. Song.   
  
“I like him Jinki.”   
  
Well, it’s not like the two of them would be talking about the latest gossip or last night’s television reruns anyway; she had a motive.   
  
“Great, I already bought you two wedding rings.”   
  
The retort is bitter on his tongue.   
  
Worst thing is that she knows it, Jihyo smiling candidly for his poor response.   
  
“I’m serious.”   
  
Jinki’s brain is screaming; he just wants her to go away. “I know you are.”   
  
Jihyo is obviously unconvinced, red nails tapping against her arm. “I am sure he would be more charming if he wasn’t so upset.”   
  
“He wasn’t upset.” The defensive response, colour draining from Jinki’s face. It was one thing for Minho’s roommate to make this observation, another thing entirely for someone the man had not even met before. “He was fine.”   
  
“I’ve never taken you to be a liar.” The disappointment in Jihyo’s eyes irritates Jinki to no end. Honestly, what did she know? “Or maybe you’re in denial?”   
  
The words sting Jinki’s ears and he does not like the feeling of fragility, his mind starting to shutdown, body wanting to just leave. He resists the urge however, Jinki knowing full well that to turn away from Jihyo meant instant defeat. He still had enough dignity to stand his ground.   
  
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”   
  
“If you aren’t going to be serious about him, you should let him go.” She’s angry. Jinki can spot her agitation easily, sharp brows turned downwards, glare cutting into his skin. “If you’re setting him up for the same bullshit path you’re on, I won’t allow it.”   
  
Jinki’s isn’t able to mask his alarm, finding himself taking a step back at the straightforward statement. Nothing was going right and Jihyo was pushing him into a wall, merciless in her approach.   
  
“I heard about your stint, making him your coffee boy.” Jihyo continues to throw out the accusations, by no means a goddess in Jinki’s eyes. There was no doubt in her mind she had gotten this information from Ha Donghoon, the scheming busybody of a journalist. “He has potential Jinki, and I question if you can really nurture it any further.” Her hand falls on her hip. “I wanted to give you a chance, but now I am not so certain.”   
  
The expression, as if Jihyo was truly above him, as if she was that condescending parent who knew what was best for not him, but _him_.   
  
Fuck her.   
  
“Minho is working his way up.” Jinki’s voice is unfamiliar to even his own ears, resolute and firm. “But he isn’t doing it through petty schemes or because he happens to have a good face. He’s getting the gritty treatment any intern goes through, a change from his naive ways, working on higher level tasks only when he has earned it. He isn’t taking some fantasy ride to the top, he’s not going to have some corrupt political executive align with him as the double edged-sword, a reputable power connection but simultaneously an Achille’s Heel if withdrawn. Minho is going to the top with his own achievements and skills; I’m making sure of that.”   
  
Jinki’s breath is uneven, not from nervousness or fear, but because of an inspired passion he thought he had long lost. The tips of his fingertips warm.   
  
In return, Jihyo’s face is unreadable, not angry or happy, that is, until there is the slightest upturn of lips.   
  
“When was the last time you talked like that?” A glimmer in her eyes, something Jinki is unwilling to admit is pretty, and something that he is also uncertain if he can trust.   
  
“Are you really sure that it’s you or Minho-ssi doing the changing?”   
  
“What?” Jinki scrunches his nose, unable to catch the hushed whisper.   
  
“You’ve made your case for the night.” The message entails the battle is won but the war is not over, Jinki taking it to heart as Jihyo shakes her head dismissively and places a hand on his shoulder. Jinki resists the urge to squirm away, feeling her cuticles scrape against his back. “But you get a minus one. I’m not a corrupt executive.”   
  
“Oh.” Jihyo’s arm loops around Jinki’s, the shock alone making Jinki freeze. “By the way, the least you could do to make it up to me is to escort me to the ballroom.”   
  
That playful smile of hers shows as she looks up to him, dazzling teeth with an anything but subtle intention. Jinki on one hand, does not know how he can refuse, especially after feeling several gazes fall upon them, the contact unexpected between essentially the traitor and his prosecutor. He nods to her, smile not returned, joining the line of people herding into several over-sized mahogany doors.   
  
“It’s beautiful isn’t it.” Jihyo tugs on his arm as they enter the Grand Ballroom, giving nods of acknowledgement to people left and right. “Not bad for an event where seating is $500 a piece hm?”   
  
“Yeah, it’s nice.” Small talk is still apparently viable, even after their confrontation, Jinki strolling in with the most desired woman on his arm. Even so, that is not to say that his reply is sarcastic, in actuality, captivated by the weaving of yellow lights over a predominantly magenta overlay. Otherwise, in the massive space, there are tables, set with the finest china, gold trimmed; surrounding booths, romantic and reminiscent of some old English theatre; heavy chandeliers sparkling from above. The only complaint Jinki would have is that the gold centerpieces are a bit much, glitter encrusted flowers rising three feet above a white tablecloth.   
  
“I presume we are at different tables?”   
  
Unknowingly, Jinki has been led to the near front of the room, where head staff from the house, such as Jihyo herself are seated, a place he once knew well. Now he belonged amongst those tables in the mid-center to back, far from the eyes of the important and definitely out of range from recording cameras on national television. There was little need to incite any more unnecessary contempt from his presence.   
  
“I hope you enjoy your evening.” Jinki pulls his arm loose from Jihyo’s, certain that some other fine gentleman would guide her to her exact seat. He makes the move to leave in haste, not feeling up to staying around and arguing with some well-spoken hotshot from his old workplace.   
  
“Jinki-yah.”   
  
She always did save the best for last, Jinki pausing as a few heads turn upon hearing his name.   
  
“I hope you know where he is.” That ‘he,’ an obvious reference on her sharp tongue. “I wouldn’t want him to miss out the opening presidential speech, which I heard you two collaboratively penned. I expect it will be a rewarding experience.”   
  
Jinki does not turn back, giving the poised woman a wave as his response. He did not need to bother looking back, where the faces of old grouches and young know-it-alls would be awaiting, men and women who would put an additional damper on his already low night.   
  
However, Jihyo was correct to raise the point; just where the heck was Minho? Jinki scans the room as he walks towards his table, for once being unable to spot the silhouette of the young enthusiast. During campaign runs, it had always been easy, Minho’s head bobbing above the rest of the team, running about with frantic energy, but this place of refinery and class posed its challenges. First of all, the atmosphere was rather dim, despite all the decorative lighting, and secondly, everyone here was too goddamn tall. That is what happens during these galas, where one realizes when the powerful gather, not only do many have attractively carved faces, but imposingly flawless bodies as well. For one, Jinki mistakenly spots Shim Changmin, trophy husband of Song Victoria, a gorgeous and politically powerful couple towering above the rest. Next is Jung Yunho, director of the Domestic Policy Council, a charming smile on his lips, but definitely nothing compared to Minho’s.   
  
Wait.   
  
Jinki shakes his head, refusing to allow his mind the chance to rewind, instead spotting Kibum and Jonghyun seated at a table near the back of the room.   
  
“Where have you been?” Kibum sidesteps past a cushioned chair, pausing to admire Jinki’s bow tie. “Hyoyeon did good work of you, even if your shoe choice is still atrocious.”   
  
Jinki looks to his feet, a pair of Docker Gordon’s he had been wearing to special events since his first year in Yale. He snuffs his nose. “What’s wrong with them—”   
  
Jinki shuts up, Kibum giving him that recognizable _do you have to ask_ look.   
  
“Also.” Kibum in his mercy decides to bypass a lecture on Jinki’s non-existent fashion sense, choosing to focus on tidying Jinki’s tousled hair, an affectionate action that arose on occasion. “I heard about your scuffle with Jihyo-ssi over our team’s star _and_ your close colleague. Do you have any battle scars I need to take care of?”   
  
He is not sure how Kibum could have found out about the event with that extra detail, although Jinki has a sneaking suspicion as he looks in Jonghyun’s direction. The shorter man was being taken under Kibum’s wing after all, and that always called for a development in the skills of espionage, something he dreaded Jonghyun mastering.   
  
“I’m fine.” There was no point in denying something once Kibum had the information. “But, I am actually looking for him.” Jinki stares meekly at Kibum, fingers folding in and out at his side. “Did you see him around?”   
  
“I heard he was last seen speaking with Ha Donghoon.”   
  
If anything could make Jinki more nauseous, it was this.   
  
“Look.” Kibum places an arm on Jinki’s shoulder, face suddenly serious. “Jonghyun and I have no idea what they spoke about, but Donghoon has been spotted in the ballroom already.” The name is uttered in a scathing tone, no secret being that Kibum despised the journalist for his columns in an infamous political tabloid. “Minho isn’t here so you better find him.   
  
Panic has never suited Jinki, affecting his coordination as he spins around, knocking against a chair and taking a wobbly step forward. He hears Kibum groan, accompanied by a snort from Jonghyun, but he does not turn back, eyesight darting back and forth for any sight of the taller man. The thing was, Jinki had already scoured the room just prior, looking for Minho who was not with Jihyo, nor Donghoon, and not at the table they were to be seated at.   
  
Jinki’s mind can only rush to hasty conclusions.   
  
Whatever it was that Donghoon had told Minho, it could not be good, knowing full well that if anyone wished to smear his career, it was Song Jihyo’s partner. And by the time Jinki stumbles back into the foyer, clear of guests and no sight of Minho, this thought sends him into full panic mode. He could only imagine Minho’s reaction at the tale Donghoon would spin, his fatal mistake: rumours, distrust, and a failed attempt to do something right. Not to mention, the way he had been treating Minho, only worsened by this evening; that would chase any sane person away.   
  
Jinki does not want that.   
  
Being one who was so complacent, accepting of his steady decline, and inconsiderate of those he had disappointed; Jinki had gone beyond the point of feeling for something like regret. However, this very feeling prods at him, the anxiety that leaves butterflies fluttering up his throat, a tension headache forming from too many thoughts colliding at once. Jinki cannot let his folly pass, not this time. He does not want to leave the things the way they are, to let _this_ person go.   
  
He needs to find Minho.   
  
“Excuse me, do you need help sir?”   
  
A stray server breaks Jinki from his thoughts, holding a tray of empty or partially filled glasses, left behinds from all the guests.   
  
“Have you seen someone?” Jinki is unrestrained, jerking forward and grasping the server’s shirt, nearly spilling the tray. “I need to find someone. A few inches taller than me, black hair, wearing a bow tie a shade paler than mine, also, a black suit, looks really handsome and well-proportioned, big eyes.”   
  
If Jinki had been paying closer attention, his mind would have likely censored the words that spilled out. Yet, surprisingly he cares little, holding onto the young woman as she blinks at him, alarmed. Fortunately enough, the server’s open eyed stare is not entirely for his insanity but also because something happens to click.   
  
“You know? There’s someone like that in the kitchen, a guest that is.”   
  
“The kitchen?”

 

 

  
Being led down hallways, winding and expensively furnished, Jinki is already practicing his apology speech. It has every self-degrading detail possible: being hopelessly depressed, an uninspired character with no motivation, undeserving of any grace, a hypocrite for giving in to the system, and even a confession on personal appearance, being a little less than presentable due to poor self-care. He wants to admit all his faults, the necessary step before attempting to make amends.   
  
He numbers the list, based on priority, saving the worst crimes for last, devising a comprehensive and persuasive speech. But even then, for all his formulations, there is one concern that leaves his palms sweaty; Jinki cannot think of how to finish, how to possibly name a redeeming quality about himself. After running himself across the coals, Jinki could not answer the question of what could he offer to Minho? A cold pizza, a dump of a bachelor pad, his rusting car, or a political career leading to nowhere?   
  
It makes his breath shake, thinking that maybe Jihyo was right, that maybe he had jumped the gun. Maybe Jinki was not the right person—   
  
“He’s just inside here sir.” Jinki looks to the female server who gives him a polite bow before opening one half of a set of large swinging doors.   
  
“Thank you...” The words drift off his tongue, Jinki’s eyes caught by the baffling sight before him, obstructed slightly by tall stainless steel counters and metal bars. Yet, there is no questioning it as he steps onto the tiled floor, not bothering to take note of the server as she takes her leave. Jinki is instead focused on the long counters, covered by piles of flour, long fingers slowly incorporating eggs from a well in the center. The dough slowly forms, pale paste becoming firmer by the second, monitored by a satisfied smile, flour dusting his left cheek.   
  
It’s more simple than he made it out to be. Jinki does not want to give him up.   
  
“Minho?”   
  
The young man turns away from his task, padding down a round ball of dough. “Hyung?”   
  
“What are you doing?” A brief silence.   
  
“Oh— well one of the sous chefs called in sick.” The explanation is given as if it should be self-explanatory, honest and without any signs of concealed resentment. “They didn’t have enough fresh pasta prepped for the entrees so I thought I would help. You know, sometimes in the Peace Corps you get to learn an extra thing or two so I’ve done this before, and after a few practice runs, you get a system going right?”   
  
A silly situation and they both pause, Jinki eyeing the half-filled tray of dough beside a lineup of full ones. Minho pats his apron nervously.   
  
“Do you need help?” Jinki sheds his jacket, undoing his cuff-links and rolling up his sleeves.   
  
“Uh.” Minho’s eyes go wide before an appreciatory smile follows, wide and goofy looking, something that makes Jinki feel unusually light. “Yeah, just hang up your jacket on the coat rack over there. We wouldn’t want another lecture from Hyoyeon-ssi right?”   
  
Jinki laughs, something small and embarrassing, but he complies anyway, tying on a spare white apron and allowing Minho to direct him in making the simple dough.   
  
If he was more responsible, he would tell Minho to go back to the ballroom, he would inquire about Ha Donghoon, he would confess to all his mistakes, he would focus on work... But Jinki chooses to do none of those things. Minho’s smile was too pretty to disturb.

 

 

  
In the end, they didn’t get a lecture from Hyoyeon but Kibum instead, hearing the man’s traumatized squeak from the back of the kitchen. Several repeated _how dare yous_ accompanied by swift slaps to the thighs and ass, something Kibum insisted was a necessary measure in getting the flour out of their pants. Completely humiliating and a little undignified but considering the night on a whole, Minho thinks it was worth it.   
  
That is, if he could make Jonghyun stop playing his new found daily game: How hard on a scale of one to ten would Choi Minho bang his boss?   
  
Minho was insistent the gala last week was nothing like that. Yeah, maybe they did stay in the kitchen for a while, maybe because Jinki really sucked at making homemade pasta, a goopy mess that was not salvageable. And sure, maybe Minho did put Jinki on saran wrap duty, covering finished mounds of dough and laying them on trays. And maybe afterward, Jinki was a little bitter, retaliating by putting a smear of his failed paste concoction on Minho’s nose, mischievous smile on his lips with adorable slanted eyes.   
  
They both ordered the linguine.   
  
But you know, all of that meant absolutely nothing. Right?   
  
Okay, so maybe Minho’s not so certain, afraid of misreading the signs, having misunderstood late night invites to pizza more than once. In his defense though, it was hard to make anything of the situation, where Jinki was usually in some far off distant place, only to take the rare occasion and come crashing into the personal space of Minho’s world. And crash hard he did.   
  
This time however, Minho is not going to beat around the bush; he’s going to know where they stand, even if it costs him an embarrassed laugh and a ‘forget about it’ routine.   
  
He just needs to take the dive.   
  
Already pacing the hallway, outside of Jinki’s apartment on a Sunday morning, Minho rests his head on the door. So stupid, how this plan of his made him anxious, sweaty palms and failed attempts at a calmed breathing, as if he was heading into some Olympic medal tournament. Yet, this situation really did not call for that kind of anxiety. He always stayed at Jinki’s place on the weekend, preparation for the following week’s activity. Minho needed to remind himself, it was just one guy; it was just Jinki.   
  
Minho presses his finger into the doorbell, generic scale on the other side of the door a soft melody to his ears. Then the soft thud of footsteps follows, Minho inhaling a deep breath at the inevitable confrontation.   
  
“I’ll get it hyung!”   
  
Not the confrontation he was expecting.   
  
“Huh— Who are you?”   
  
That is the question Minho should be asking, standing before a slender male who holds the door open, soft auburn hair, precious eyes, and a rounded boyishness Minho had lost years ago. The loose wife-beater and over-sized sweatpants do not make the impression any better, comfortable and easy. Minho’s throat goes dry, a cold swallow of air.   
  
So that was his type.   
  
The thought takes hold before Minho can stop it, a creeping insecurity reaching up his spine. He steps back.   
  
“I— uh, I must have the wrong apartment.” No. 239, there’s no fucking way he’s in the wrong place. “Sorry about that.”   
  
“Oh, no problem.”   
  
The sweet smile, friendly intentions but something Minho looks at bitterly. It was nothing personal really, just a matter of who do you think you are, stepping in as if it was nothing, as if there was no unwritten code of laws and procedures that had to be followed before gaining this kind of privilege.   
  
A gurgle.   
  
“Meh-ho?”   
  
A failed attempt at his name, blocked by minty froth and a toothbrush, Jinki walking just behind the guy with a smear of toothpaste on the edge of his lips. His eyes are wide, looking nothing like the grumpy mess of a corporate lackey on Monday mornings, just a cozy person in a one size too many hoodie. It’s unfair, Jinki looking like a stay in bed kind of morning, finding Minho’s presence an unexpected surprise. Minho just wished this surprise did not feel like some prelude to a bad soap opera, where he was the stranger walking into a scene from the morning after.   
  
Although, for this intrusion, the guy standing in the middle doesn’t seem to be bothered much, looking to Jinki then back to Minho.   
  
“Oh so you know hyung?”   
  
“Ah.” Minho’s caught. “Yeah, but you two seem busy and it’s nothing important so—”   
  
Minho pauses mid-phrase, catching a weird look from Jinki that is left undeciphered as the young man makes a moves from the door, effectively blocking Minho’s line of sight.   
  
“Not really actually. Come in.”   
  
That’s the last thing he wants to do and Minho looks to Jinki, expecting the man to shoo him away, except his expectations are not met. Jinki merely shrugs, walking away as the young man at the door motions Minho to enter again. He takes the offer and honestly, Minho knows his actions are not based on the most logical thought processes, coming into the home after being irked by Jinki’s indifference.   
  
They each take a seat, Minho at the sofa and the younger man in a chair from the adjacent kitchen. Not much is said, and the only sounds heard are those from the bathroom, Jinki likely gurgling some of that strange five dollar purple mouthwash he liked. Minho almost wishes Jinki was doing that gurgling here and now, feeling immensely awkward as the boy rests his hands on his arms, observing Minho with curious eyes.   
  
“Sorry to ask again.” The boy blinks blankly. “But who are you?”   
  
This kid doesn’t have the best of manners, but admittedly his face is sweet, so Minho decides to engage in the small talk. “Choi Minho. Jinki-ssi is my supervisor on the campaign team.” The honorific sounds strange on this tongue, but Minho forces it anyway.   
  
“Oh. I see.”   
  
The boy smiles, and something flickers within Minho, an annoying sensation akin to dejavu. Frustratingly though, his mind fails to recall anything.   
  
“So what do you two do?” The boy continues to inquire, Minho noting the whistle of the facet from the bathroom, Jinki still not finished.   
  
“Well a lot of things I guess.” Minho’s fingers flex in and out as he forms a list. “Organizing public events, handling files for potential corporate sponsors, maintaining a relationship with key supporters. You know, the usual.” Minho leaves out midnight runs to the 24-hour McDonalds for cheap coffee and burgers; late evenings, escaping from towers of paperwork, walking Marjory around the block once or twice; mornings calls, four or five times to make sure Jinki gets the fuck up – the unimportant details.   
  
“Sounds kind of dull.”   
  
Minho does not like this kid’s attitude, tone of an apathetic undergrad, uninterested face reminiscent of something he’s seen before, television celebrity perhaps? But Minho ignores it, gritting his teeth anyway. “Well that may be true.” Minho decides to turn the tables. “How do you know Jinki-ssi?”   
  
“Oh, I crash here all the time.”   
  
“Yeah, and you give me nothing in return.”   
  
“Hey, way to exaggerate.”   
  
The mystery of their relationship unfolds, Minho witness to the intimate exchange as Jinki walks into the kitchen, just as refreshed as the man could ever be. He then proceeds to pop open a bottle of cola, taking a swig before passing it to the younger man, who takes a drink, lips where Jinki’s were, without the slightest sense of apprehension. Minho feels his insecurity come rushing back.   
  
“What’s up with you Choi?”   
  
Minho takes a second before comprehending the voice, Jinki giving him the same unreadable look from before.   
  
“I know what you’re thinking.” This time Minho thinks he catches it, Jinki brows knitting together in irritation. Both Minho and the younger man looking up at him confused, Jinki speaking lowly. “And just so you know, you are completely off base.”   
  
He’s without a response, Minho catching sight of the boy sending him a questioning glance, as if he knew what the heck Jinki was talking about. Unfortunately, he had no idea either.   
  
Jinki rolls his eyes this time, placing a firm hand on the younger man’s shoulder, simultaneously pointing to the round handsome face. “Think Minho.” Jinki enunciates each syllable clearly. “You’re memorizing that dossier of House staff profiles Kibum gave you right? Well this guy’s face is another one that you better know.”   
  
It takes a split second before dawning on Minho, the dejavu not being some nonsensical thought, in fact recalling the occasional newspaper article and National television broadcast.   
  
“Lee Taemin?”   
  
“Oh gods, hyung did you have to tell him?” The young man groans, waving his arms to throw Jinki off, clearly unamused.   
  
Minho however, pays little attention to the bickering, doing his own contemplation and feeling slightly less than bright. How could he have missed it, the familiar face, heartthrob to millions of American teens (including his niece), his boss at the very top, the president’s son himself, yes _that_ president.   
  
“Nice to meet you.” The dumb response from Minho’s lips as he rises to his feet, holding out a hand.   
  
“I will kill you hyung.” Taemin sneers in Jinki’s direction, who just laughs in return. He then sighs, turning towards Minho, taking the offered hand for a delicate shake. “Nice to meet you. Name’s Taemin.”   
  
Only then does Minho learn about the relationship between his boss and the president’s son, over a plate of homemade scrambled eggs and hash browns, a rare effort on Jinki’s part. To put it simply, Jinki’s place was Taemin’s escape, a bachelor pad to complain about life and eat cheap but satisfying takeout, something that one could miss out on, having people dedicated to serving you left and right.   
  
Apparently, during one private event, other than Taemin, Jinki was the youngest guy among the political heavyweights, aged and pompous. It was inevitable that two would gravitate to one another, realizing then that the relationship could extend beyond formal occasions, the deal breaker being a conversation about how the circumference of waist size could determine the level of one’s ego.   
  
The main reason Minho had missed this friendship, other than Jinki’s seemingly inherent nature to not speak about his personal business, is because Taemin had recently been overseas, attending University in London. With a handful of recommendation letters, one from Jinki himself, an above average academic record, and the promotional label of being the son of the President of the United States – a detail Taemin concedes to unabashedly, having long gotten over the shame of privilege – his acceptance letter was only a matter of waiting for the ink and paper to print it.   
  
Coincidentally, after a full semester of classes, Taemin was forced to return for his father recently, the airs of showing a united family front as the voters of America would hit the polls within the coming months.   
  
“Anyway, you can’t stay here.” Jinki’s declaration lies in the air as he takes the empty plates from Taemin and Minho, rinsing ketchup and grease into the sink.   
  
Taemin in turn looks distraught, hands dropping to the kitchen table. “Why not? Come on hyung, you know how much I hate it in the House.”   
  
Minho’s impressed by the innocent face, Taemin surely being the type who could manipulate any person into giving him his desires. Heck, even Minho was falling for it, the long lashes fluttering sweetly; but of course, Jinki was unwavering on the issue.   
  
“As much as I love hearing about how British girls enjoy your all-American boy style,” Jinki muses, sarcasm dripping from his voice, “You know I’ve been moved from departments and we’re at peak season right now. I don’t have the time to watch you and make sure you don’t burn down my place.”   
  
“You’re just jealous I’ve gotten some ass within the past month.” The frank reply, unbecoming of the angelic face but something Minho cannot help but smirk at. Taemin continues to plead. “I’ll be on my best behaviour sir Jinki!”   
  
Jinki rolls his eyes, arms elbow deep in suds and dirty cutlery. “I was very jealous, especially when I saw your face on the tabloids, sucking face with a red-haired vixen.” Jinki shakes a wet fork in Taemin’s direction. “You do realize we need you to uphold a bit of an image. It doesn’t make my job easier, especially when conservative mothers bicker with me about our position on the state of youth today.”   
  
“Hey, London paparazzi are vicious!” Taemin pouts, giving a poor defense. “I mean it was the only time I went out that whole school year, and they caught me. It’s not like I’m some playboy.”   
  
Minho highly doubts the statements hold any truth, but he only knows this because of the look on Jinki’s face. This kid was convincing, Taemin’s dumbfounded and hurt expression earning the compassion of any sympathetic soul. Too bad Jinki was already hardened to see past deceitful ploys.   
  
“Well you _are_ the president’s son.” Jinki looks exasperated, drying the dishes with a blue washcloth. “What did you expect? Every time you snog a girl, the media is going to have a heyday. Heck, they caught you on campus when you were trying to go on that blind date.”   
  
“That girl was nice.” Taemin looks off distantly before refocusing, his face reflecting a move to suddenly change tactics. “But hyung, you shouldn’t be so bitter just because the last person you dated was six months ago, Kikwang right?”   
  
“What the—“ Jinki chokes and Minho’s interest is peeked, hearing the distinctly male name. Minho puts a hand under his chin, gaze attentive upon the devious boy who sat across from him, youth preparing an underhanded attack.   
  
“Or maybe you are too heartbroken to get back into the dating game.” Taemin’s eyebrows arch a mile high, innocent smile on his lips, not an image that matched his conniving intentions. “I heard your breakup with that Lizzie girl was rough. Although, Kibum also told me about how you rejected Jihyo’s assistant after she asked you out last week. Seungyeon or something?”   
  
The name rings a bell, Minho’s eyes going wide recalling the attractive woman delivering a file once or twice to the offices. She was a tiny woman with a fiery personality that was not meant not trifled with. To say the least, it was a little shocking to believe that Jinki had actually rejected her, if not a bit of a relief.   
  
Minho flushes, gaze wandering and catching Jinki’s by chance. Both embarrassed, they are unable to keep eye contact for long, and it’s stupid because Minho is unable to understand it, whatever _it_ was, being far too high school for comfort.   
  
“Since when have you talked to Kibum?” Jinki clears his throat, dealing with the last of the forks and knives.   
  
“Hyung.” Taemin makes a face, disappointed. “Unlike you, who sends me an e-mail months after I do – you’re slower than snail mail, seriously – Kibum keeps in regular contact with me. So, I end up getting all my information about you second hand.”   
  
“That’s just peachy. With friends like you, even Ha Donghoon doesn’t seem all that bad—”   
  
“Oh!” Taemin suddenly jumps in his seat, a starry-eyed look directed to Minho before turning to Jinki and stating matter-of-factly, “Kibum says you have a new cr—”   
  
Minho doesn’t have the chance to listen to the rest of the intriguing conversation as Jinki rushes over, hand over Taemin’s lips accompanied by a desperate but threatening look, which Minho recognizes as the _please shut your mouth_ face. The intimidation tactic does not work however, and Taemin throws a flimsy arm forward, pushing Jinki’s face away from his.   
  
“Your hands are gross hyung!”   
  
“I’ll drown you in dishwater!”   
  
The two struggle with weak arms jerking about, an awkward battle of men unfit for fist fights. Yet, for such childish interactions, Minho admits that he had pinned Taemin all wrong, even if the boy was someone dear to Jinki. In fact, Minho thinks he really likes Taemin, a sudden fierce cry erupting in the room as the pair topple to the floor with Minho sitting undisturbed in his chair. Nose peeking to the sight below him, Minho takes silent enjoyment in how frazzled Jinki is, hair tossed and eyes seemingly lighter.   
  
It’s a nice change in pace.


End file.
